liili 


HAGAR 


HAGAR 

BY 

MARY  JOHNSTON 


BOSTON   AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
re#tf  Cambridge 

1913 


COPYRIGHT,    1913,   BY   MARY  JOHNSTON 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  October  1913 


CONTENTS 

I.  THE  PACKET-BOAT I 

II.  GILEAD  BALM 8 

III.  THE  DESCENT  OF  MAN 19 

IV.  THE  CONVICT :'.'       .  30 

V.  MARIA       .        .        .        .        .      -^        -  "  .  -     .  45 

VI.  EGLANTINE    .        .        ....     <"•']        .-    •  •  •  >•     57 

VII.  MR.  LAYDON     ....      <•''.  •      i     '  .        .    7° 

VIII.  HAGAR  AND  LAYDON     .     ....        .       ••••        .         82 

IX.  ROMEO  AND  JULIET  .     .  .     ....        .   '  ;- .  -       .92 

X.  GILEAD  BALM        .      ».     ..       V'   '   *        .'      .       104 

XI.  THE  LETTERS    .     •  .     .....  .        *        .        .  116 

XII.  A  MEETING 132 

XIII.  THE  NEW  SPRINGS 143 

XIV.  NEW  YORK   . 154 

XV.  LOOKING  FOR  THOMASINE         .        .        .        .        .170 

XVI.   THE  MAINES P        .       184 

XVII.   THE  SOCIALIST  MEETING          .  .        .        .  194 

XVIII.   A  TELEGRAM  .       • 208 

XIX.   ALEXANDRIA 221 


910887 


vi  CONTENTS 

XX.   MED  WAY .        .231 

XXI.  AT  ROGER  MICHAEL'S 244 

XXII.   HAGAR  IN  LONDON 257 

XXIII.  BY  THE  SEA 266 

XXIV.  DENNY  GAYDE 275 

XXV.   HAGAR  AND  DENNY 284 

XXVI.   GILEAD  BALM 3oo 

XXVII.  A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION 313 

XXVIII.   NEW  YORK  AGAIN 323 

XXIX.   ROSE  DARRAGH     . 332 

XXX.  AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE 341 

XXXI.  JOHN  FAY 3SI 

XXXII.   RALPH 36o 

XXXIII.  GILEAD  BALM 372 

XXXIV.  BRITTANY 382 


HAGAR 


HAGAR 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  PACKET-BOAT 

"LbwBraidget" 

The  people  on  deck  bent  over,  some  until  heads  touched 
knees,  others,  more  exactly  calculating,  just  sufficiently  to 
clear  the  beams.  The  canal-boat  passed  beneath  the  bridge, 
and  all  straightened  themselves  on  their  camp-stools.  The 
gentlemen  who  were  smoking  put  their  cigars  again  between 
their  lips.  The  two  or  three  ladies  resumed  book  or  knitting. 
The  sun  was  low,  and  the  sycamores  and  willows  fringing  the 
banks  cast  long  shadows  across  the  canal.  The  northern 
bank  was  not  so  clothed  with  foliage,  and  one  saw  an  expanse 
of  bottom  land,  meadows  and  cornfields,  and  beyond,  low 
mountains,  purple  in  the  evening  light.  The  boat  slipped 
from  a  stripe  of  gold  into  a  stripe  of  shadow,  and  from  a  stripe 
of  shadow  into  a  stripe  of  gold.  The  negro  and  the  mule  on 
the  towpath  were  now  but  a  bit  of  dusk  in  motion,  and  now 
were  lit  and,  so  to  speak,  powdered  with  gold-dust.  Now  the 
rope  between  boat  and  towpath  showed  an  arm-thick  golden 
serpent,  and  now  it  did  not  show  at  all.  Now  a  little  cloud  of 
gnats  and  flies,  accompanying  the  boat,  shone  in  burnished 
armour  and  now  they  put  on  a  mantle  of  shade. 

A  dark  little  girl,  of  twelve  years,  dark  and  thin,  sitting  aft 
on  the  deck  floor,  her  long,  white-stockinged  legs  folded 
decorously  under  her,  her  blue  gingham  skirt  spread  out,  and 


2  HAGAR 

her  Leghorn  hat  up'psi.her  knees,  appealed  to  one  of  the  read 
ing  ladies.  "Aunt  Serena,  what  is  'evolution'?" 

Mies  Set;  ma  A&heridyne  laid  down  her  book.  "'  Evolu 
tion,'"  she  said  blankly,  "'what  is  evolution?'" 

"I  heard  grandfather  say  it  just  now.  He  said,  'That  man 
Darwin  and  his  evolution'  — " 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Serena.  "He  meant  a  very  wicked  and 
irreligious  Englishman  who  wrote  a  dreadful  book." 

"Was  it  named  'Evolution'?" 

"No.  I  forget  just  what  it  is  called.  'Beginning'  —  No! 
'Origin  of  Species.'  That  was  it." 

"Have  we  got  it  in  the  library  at  Gilead  Balm?" 

"Heavens!  No!" 

"Why?" 

"Your  grandfather  would  n't  let  it  come  into  the  house. 
No  lady  would  read  it." 

"Oh!" 

Miss  Serena  returned  to  her  novel.  She  sat  very  elegantly 
on  the  camp-stool,  a  graceful,  long-lined,  drooping  form  in  a 
greenish-grey  delaine  picked  out  with  tiny  daisies.  It  was 
made  polonaise.  Miss  Serena,  alone  of  the  people  at  Gilead 
Balm,  kept  up  with  the  fashions. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  long,  narrow  deck  a  knot  of  country 
gentlemen  were  telling  war  stories.  All  had  fought  in  the  war 
—  the  war  that  had  been  over  now  for  twenty  years  and  more. 
There  were  an  empty  sleeve  and  a  wooden  leg  in  the  group  and 
other  marks  of  bullet  and  sabre.  They  told  good  stories,  the 
country  gentlemen,  and  they  indulged  in  mellow  laughter. 
Blue  rings  of  tobacco-smoke  rose  and  mingled  and  made  a 
haze  about  that  end  of  the  boat. 


THE   PACKET-BOAT  3 

"How  the  gentlemen  are  enjoying  themselves!"  said  plac 
idly  one  of  the  knitting  ladies. 

The  dark  little  girl  continued  to  ponder  the  omission  from 
the  library.  "Aunt  Serena — " 

"Yes,  Hagar." 

" Is  it  like  ' Tom  Jones'?" 

"'Tom  Jones'!  What  do  you  know  about  'Tom  Jones'?" 

"Grandfather  was  reading  it  one  day  and  laughing,  and 
after  he  had  done  with  it  I  got  it  down  from  the  top  shelf  and 
asked  him  if  I  might  read  it,  and  he  said,  'No,  certainly  not! 
it  is  n't  a  book  for  ladies. "r 

"Your  grandfather  was  quite  right.  You  read  entirely  too 
much  anyway.  Dr.  Bude  told  your  mother  so." 

The  little  girl  turned  large,  alarmed  eyes  upon  her.  "I 
don't  read  half  as  much  as  I  used  to.  I  don't  read  except  just 
a  little  time  in  the  morning  and  evening  and  after  supper.  It 
would  kill  me  if  I  could  n't  read  — " 

"Well,  well,"  said  Miss  Serena,  "I  suppose  we  shall  con 
tinue  to  spoil  you!" 

She  said  it  in  a  very  sweet  voice,  and  she  patted  the  child's 
arm  and  then  she  went  back  to  "The  Wooing  O't."  She  was 
fond  of  reading  novels  herself,  though  she  liked  better  to  do 
macrame  work  and  to  paint  porcelain  placques. 

The  packet-boat  glided  on.  It  was  almost  the  last  packet- 
boat  in  the  state  and  upon  almost  its  last  journey.  Presently 
there  would  go  away  forever  the  long,  musical  winding  of  the 
packet-boat  horn.  It  would  never  echo  any  more  among  the 
purple  hills,  but  the  locomotive  would  shriek  here  as  it 
shrieked  elsewhere.  Beyond  the  willows  and  sycamores, 
across  the  river  whose  reaches  were  seen  at  intervals,  gangs 


4  HAGAR 

of  convicts  with  keepers  and  guards  and  overseers  were  at 
work  upon  the  railroad. 

The  boat  passing  through  a  lock,  the  dark  little  girl  stared, 
fascinated,  at  one  of  these  convicts,  a  "trusty,"  a  young  white 
man  who  was  there  at  the  lock-keeper's  on  some  errand  and 
who  now  stood  speaking  to  the  stout  old  man  on  the  coping 
of  masonry.  As  the  water  in  the  lock  fell  and  the  boat  was 
steadily  lowered  and  the  stone  walls  on  either  hand  grew 
higher  and  higher,  the  figure  of  the  convict  came  to  stand  far 
above  all  on  deck.  Dressed  hideously,  in  broad  stripes  of 
black  and  white,  it  stood  against  the  calm  evening  sky,  with 
a  sense  of  something  withdrawn  and  yet  gigantic.  The  face 
was  only  once  turned  toward  the  boat  with  its  freight  of  peo 
ple  who  dressed  as  they  pleased.  It  was  not  at  all  a  bad  face, 
and  it  was  boyishly  young.  The  boat  slipped  from  the  lock 
and  went  on  down  the  canal,  between  green  banks.  The 
negro  on  the  towpath  was  singing  and  his  rich  voice  floated 

across  — 

"  For  everywhere  I  went  ter  pray, 
I  met  all  hell  right  on  my  way." 

The  country  gentlemen  were  laughing  again,  wrapped  in  the 
blue  and  fragrant  smoke.  The  captain  of  the  packet-boat 
came  up  the  companionway  and  passed  from  group  to  group 
like  a  benevolent  patriarch.  Down  below,  supper  was  cook 
ing;  one  smelled  the  coffee.  The  sun  was  slipping  lower,  in  the 
green  bottoms  the  frogs  were  choiring.  Standing  in  the  prow 
of  the  boat  a  negro  winded  the  long  packet-boat  horn.  It 
echoed  and  echoed  from  the  purple  hills. 

The  dark  little  girl  was  still  staring  at  the  dwindling  lock. 
The  black-and-white  figure,  striped  like  a  zebra,  was  there 


THE   PACKET-BOAT  5 

yet,  though  it  had  come  down  out  of  the  sky  and  had  now 
only  the  green  of  the  country  about  and  behind  it.  It  grew 
smaller  and  smaller  until  it  was  no  larger  than  a  black-and- 
white  woodpecker  —  it  was  gone. 

She  appealed  again  to  Miss  Serena.  "Aunt  Serena,  what 
do  you  suppose  he  did?" 

Miss  Serena,  who  prided  herself  upon  her  patience,  put 
down  her  book  for  the  tenth  time.  "Of  whom  are  you  speak 
ing,  Hagar?" 

"That  man  back  there  —  the  convict." 

"I  did  n't  notice  him.  But  if  he  is  a  convict,  he  probably 
did  something  very  wicked." 

Hagar  sighed.  "  I  don't  think  anybody  ought  to  be  made  to 
dress  like  that.  It  —  it  smudged  my  soul  just  to  look  at  it." 

"Convicts,"  said  Miss  Serena,  "are  not  usually  people  of 
fine  feelings.  And  you  ought  to  take  warning  by  him  never 
to  do  anything  wicked." 

A  silence  while  the  trees  and  the  flowering  blackberry 
bushes  went  by;  then,  "Aunt  Serena  — " 

"Yes?" 

"The  woman  over  there  with  the  baby  —  she  says  her  hus 
band  got  hurt  in  an  accident  —  and  she 's  got  to  get  to  him  — 
and  she  has  n't  got  any  money.  The  stout  man  gave  her 
something,  and  I  think  the  captain  would  n't  let  her  pay. 
Can't  I  —  wouldn't  you  —  can't  I  —  give  her  just  a  little?" 

"The  trouble  is,"  said  Miss  Serena,  "that  you  never  know 
whether  or  not  those  people  are  telling  the  truth.  And  we 
are  n't  rich,  as  you  know,  Hagar.  But  if  you  want  to,  you 
can  go  ask  your  grandfather  if  he  will  give  you  something 
to  give." 


6  HAGAR 

The  dark  little  girl  undoubted  her  white-stockinged  legs, 
got  up,  smoothed  down  her  blue  gingham  dress,  and  went  for 
ward  until  the  tobacco-smoke  wrapped  her  in  a  fragrant  fog. 
Out  of  it  came,  genially,  the  Colonel's  voice,  rich  as  old 
madeira,  shot  like  shot  silk  with  curious  electric  tensions  and 
strains  and  agreements,  a  voice  at  once  mellifluous  and  capa 
ble  of  revealments  demanding  other  adjectives,  a  voice  that 
was  the  Colonel's  and  spoke  the  Colonel  from  head  to  heel. 
It  went  with  his  beauty,  intact  yet  at  fifty-eight,  with 
the  greying  amber  of  his  hair,  mustache,  and  imperial;  with 
his  eyes,  not  large  but  finely  shaped  and  coloured;  with  his 
slightly  aquiline  nose;  with  the  height  and  easy  swing  of  his 
body  that  was  neither  too  spare  nor  too  full.  It  went  with  him 
from  head  to  foot,  and,  though  it  was  certainly  not  a  loud 
voice  nor  a  too-much-used  one,  it  quite  usually  dominated 
whatever  group  for  the  moment  enclosed  the  Colonel.  He 
was  speaking  now  in  a  kind  of  energetic,  golden  drawl.  "So 
he  came  up  to  me  and  said,  'Dash  it,  Ashendyne!  if  gentle 
men  can't  be  allowed  in  this  degenerate  age  to  rule  their  own 
households  and  arrange  their  own  duels — "  He  became 
aware  of  the  child  standing  by  him,  and  put  out  a  well-formed, 
nervous  hand.  "Yes,  Gipsy?  What  is  it  you  want  now?" 

Hagar  explained  sedately. 

"Her  husband  hurt  and  can't  get  to  him  to  nurse  him?" 
said  the  Colonel.  "Well,  well  I  That's  pretty  bad  I  I  suppose 
we  must  take  up  a  collection.  Pass  the  hat,  Gipsy!" 

Hagar  went  to  each  of  the  country  gentlemen,  not  with  the 
suggested  hat,  but  with  her  small  palm  held  out,  cupped. 
One  by  one  they  dropped  into  it  quarter  or  dime,  and  each, 
as  his  coin  tinkled  down,  had  for  the  collector  of  bounty  a 


THE   PACKET-BOAT  7 

drawling,  caressing,  humorous  word.  She  thanked  each  gen 
tleman  as  his  bit  of  silver  touched  her  hand  and  thanked 
with  a  sedate  little  manner  of  perfection.  Manners  at  Gilead 
Balm  were  notoriously  of  a  perfection. 

Hagar  took  the  money  to  the  woman  with  the  baby  and 
gave  it  to  her  shyly,  with  a  red  spot  in  each  cheek.  She  was 
careful  to  explain,  when  the  woman  began  to  stammer  thanks, 
that  it  was  from  her  grandfather  and  the  other  gentlemen  and 
that  they  were  anxious  to  help.  She  was  a  very  honest  little 
girl,  with  an  honest  wish  to  place  credit  where  it  belonged. 

Back  beside  Miss  Serena  she  sat  and  studied  the  moving 
green  banks.  The  sun  was  almost  down;  there  were  wonder 
ful  golden  clouds  above  the  mountains.  Willow  and  syca 
more,  on  the  river  side  of  the  canal,  fell  away.  Across  an 
emerald,  marshy  strip,  you  saw  the  bright,  larger  stream, 
mirror  for  the  bright  sky,  and  across  it  in  turn  you  saw  lime 
stone  cliffs  topped  with  shaggy  woods,  and  you  heard  the 
sound  of  picks  against  rock  and  saw  another  band  of  con 
victs,  white  and  black,  making  the  railroad.  The  packet-boat 
horn  was  blown  again,  —  long,  musical,  somewhat  mournfully 
echoing.  The  negro  on  the  towpath,  riding  sideways  on  his 
mule,  was  singing  still. 

"Aunt  Serena--  " 

"Yes,  Hagar." 

"Why  is  it  that  women  don't  have  any  money?" 

Miss  Serena  closed  her  book.  She  glanced  at  the  fields  and 
the  sky-line.   "We  shall  be  at  Gilead  Balm  in  ten  minutes.— 
You  ask  too  many  questions,  Hagar  1   It  is  a  very  bad  habit 
to  be  always  interrogating.  It  is  quite  distinctly  unladylike." 


CHAPTER  II 

GILEAD  BALM 

AT  the  Gilead  Balm  landing  waited  Captain  Bob  with  a 
negro  man  to  carry  up  to  the  house  the  Colonel's  portman 
teau  and  Miss  Serena's  small  leather  trunk.  The  packet-boat 
came  in  sight,  white  and  slow  as  a  deliberate  swan,  drew  re 
flectively  down  the  shining  reach  of  water,  and  sidled  to  the 
landing.  The  Colonel  shook  hands  with  all  the  country  gen 
tlemen  and  bowed  to  the  ladies,  and  the  country  gentlemen 
bowed  to  Miss  Serena,  who  in  turn  bent  her  head  and  smiled, 
and  the  captain  said  good-bye,  and  the  Colonel  gave  the  at 
tendant  darky  a  quarter,  and  the  woman  with  the  baby  came 
to  that  side  of  the  boat  and  held  for  a  moment  the  hand  of 
the  dark  little  girl,  and  then  the  gangplank  was  placed  and 
the  three  Ashendynes  passed  over  to  the  Colonel's  land.  The 
horn  blew  again,  long,  melodious;  the  negro  on  the  towpath 
said,  "Get  up!"  to  the  mule.  Amid  a  waving  of  hands  and 
a  chorus  of  slow,  agreeable  voices  the  packet-boat  glided 
from  the  landing  and  proceeded  down  the  pink  water  between 
the  willows  and  sycamores. 

Captain  Bob,  with  his  hound  Luna  at  his  heels,  greeted  the 
returning  members  of  the  family:  "Well,  Serena,  did  you 
have  a  pleasant  visit?  Hey,  Gipsy,  you've  grown  a  week! 
Well,  Colonel?" 

The  Colonel  shook  hands  with  his  brother.  "Very  pleasant 


GILEAD   BALM  9 

time,  Bob!  Good  old-time  people,  too  good  for  this  damned 
new-fangled  world!  But — "  he  breathed  deep.  "I  am  glad 
to  get  home.  I  am  always  glad  to  get  home.  Well  ?  Every 
thing  all  right?" 

"Right  as  a  trivet!  The  Bishop 's  here,  and  Mrs.  LeGrand. 
Came  on  the  stage  yesterday." 

"That's  good  news,"  said  the  Colonel.  "The  Bishop's 
always  welcome,  and  Mrs.  LeGrand  is  most  welcome." 

The  four  began  to  walk  toward  the  house,  half  a  mile  away, 
just  visible  among  great  trees.  The  dark  little  girl  walked 
beside  the  hound,  but  the  hound  kept  her  nose  in  Captain 
Bob's  palm.  She  was  fond  of  Hagar,  but  Captain  Bob  was 
her  god.  As  for  Captain  Bob  himself,  he  walked  like  a  curious, 
unfinished,  somewhat  flawed  and  shortened  suggestion  of  his 
brother.  He  was  shorter  than  the  Colonel  and  broader;  hair, 
nose,  eyes,  mouth  were  nothing  like  so  fine;  carriage  and  port 
were  quite  different;  he  lacked  the  cachet,  he  lacked  the  grand 
air.  For  all  that,  the  fact  that  they  were  brothers  was  evident 
enough.  Captain  Bob  loved  dogs  and  hunting,  and  read  the 
county  newspaper  and  the  sporting  almanac.  He  was  not 
complex.  Ninety-nine  times  out  of  a  hundred  he  acted  from 
instinct  and  habit,  and  the  puzzling  hundredth  time  he  beat 
about  for  tradition  and  precedent.  He  was  good-natured  and 
spendthrift,  with  brains  enough  for  not  too  distant  purposes. 
Emotionally,  he  was  strongest  in  family  affection.  "Missed 
you  all!"  he  now  observed  cheerfully.  "Gilead  Balm's  been 
like  a  graveyard." 

"How  is  mother?"  asked  Miss  Serena.  She  was  picking 
her  way  delicately  through  the  green  lane,  between  the  even 
ing  primroses,  the  grey-green  delaine  held  just  right.  "She 


10 


HAGAR 


wrote  me  that  she  burned  her  hand  trying  the  strawberry 
preserves." 

"  It  's  all  right  now.   Never  saw  Old  Miss  looking  better  1 " 

The  dark  little  girl  turned  her  dark  eyes  on  Captain  Bob. 
"How  is  my  mother?" 

"Maria?  Well,  I  should  say  that  she  was  all  right,  too.  I 
have  n't  heard  her  complain." 

"Gad!  I  wish  she  would  complain,"  ejaculated  the  Colonel. 
"Then  one  could  tell  her  there  was  nothing  to  complain 
about.  I  hate  these  women  who  go  through  life  with  a  smile 
on  their  lips  and  an  indictment  in  their  eyes  —  when  there 's 
only  the  usual  up  and  down  of  living  to  indict.  I  had  rather 
they  would  whine  —  though  I  hate  them  to  whine,  too.  But 
women  are  all  cowards.  No  woman  knows  how  to  take,  the 
world." 

The  dark  little  girl,  who  had  been  walking  between  the 
Colonel  and  Captain  Bob,  began  to  tremble.  "Whoever 
else's  a  coward,  my  mother  's  not — " 

"I  don't  think,  father,  you  ought — " 

Captain  Bob  was  stronger  yet.  He  was  fond  of  Gipsy,  and 
he  thought  that  sometimes  the  family  bore  too  hardly  on 
Maria.  Now  and  then  he  did  a  small  bit  of  cloudy  thinking, 
and  when  he  did  it  he  always  brought  forth  the  result  with  a 
certain  curious  clearing  of  the  throat  and  nodding  of  the  head, 
as  though  the  birth  of  an  idea  was  attended  with  considerable 
physical  strain.  "No,  Colonel,"  now  he  said,  "you  ought  n't! 
Damn  it,  where 'd  we  be  but  for  women  anyhow?  As  for 
Maria  —  I  think  you  're  too  hard  on  Maria.  The  chief  trou 
ble  with  Maria  is  that  she  is  n't  herself  an  Ashendyne.  Of 
course,  she  can't  help  that,  but  I  think  it  is  a  pity.  Always 


GILEAD   BALM  n 

did  think  that  men  ought  to  marry  at  least  fifth  or  sixth 
cousins.  Bring  women  in  without  blood  and  traditions  of  peo 
ple  they  've  got  to  live  with  —  of  course,  there  's  trouble 
adapting.  Seen  it  a  score  of  times.  Maria 's  just  like  the  rest 
when  they're  not  cousins.  Ought  somehow  to  be  cousins. '* 

"Bob,  you  are  a  perfect  fool,"  remarked  the  Colonel. 

He  walked  on,  between  the  primroses,  his  hands  behind 
him,  tall  and  easy  in  his  black,  wide-skirted  coat  and  his  soft 
black  hat.  The  earth  was  in  shadow,  but  the  sky  glowed  car 
nation.  Against  it  stood  out  the  long,  low  red-brick  house  of 
Gilead  Balm.  At  either  gable  end  rose  pyramidal  cedars, 
high  and  dark  against  the  vivid  sky.  In  the  lane  there  was 
the  smell  of  dewy  grass,  and  on  either  hand,  back  from  the 
vine-draped  rail  fences,  rolled  the  violet  fields.  Somewhere  in 
the  distance  sounded  the  tinkling  of  cow  bells.  The  ardent 
sky  began  to  pale;  the  swallows  were  circling  above  the  chim 
neys  of  Gilead  Balm,  and  now  the  silver  Venus  came  out 
clear. 

The  little  girl  named  Hagar  lagged  a  little  going  up  the 
low  hill  on  which  the  house  stood.  She  was  growing  fast,  and 
all  journeys  were  exciting,  and  she  was  taking  iron  because 
she  was  n't  very  strong,  and  she  had  had  a  week  of  change  and 
had  been  thinking  hard  and  was  tired.  She  wanted  to  see  her 
mother,  and  indeed  she  wanted  to  see  all  at  Gilead  Balm,  for, 
unlike  her  mother,  she  loved  Gilead  Balm,  but  going  up  the 
hill  she  lagged  a  little.  Partly  it  was  to  look  at  the  star  and  to 
listen  to  the  distant  bells.  She  was  not  aware  that  she  ob 
served  that  which  we  call  Nature  with  a  deep  passion  and 
curiosity,  that  beauty  was  the  breath  of  her  nostrils,  and 
that  she  hungered  and  thirsted  after  the  righteousness  of 


12  HAGAR 

knowledge.  She  only  came  slowly,  after  many  years,  into 
that  much  knowledge  of  herself.  To-day  she  was  but  an  un 
developed  child,  her  mind  a  nebula  just  beginning  to  spiral. 
In  conversation  she  would  have  applied  the  word  "pretty" 
indiscriminately  to  the  flushed  sky,  the  star,  the  wheeling 
swallows,  the  yellow  primroses.  But  within,  already,  the 
primroses  struck  one  note,  and  the  wheeling  swallows  another, 
and  the  sky  another,  and  the  star  another,  and,  combined, 
they  made  a  chord  that  was  like  no  other  chord.  Already  her 
moments  were  distinguished,  and  each  time  she  saw  Gilead 
Balm  she  saw,  and  dimly  knew  that  she  saw,  a  different 
Gilead  Balm. 

She  climbed  the  hill  a  little  stumblingly,  a  dark,  thin  child 
with  braided,  dusky  hair.  She  was  so  tired  that  things  went 
into  a  kind  of  mist  —  the  house  and  the  packet-boat  and  the 
lock  and  the  convict  and  the  piping  frogs  and  the  cat-tails  in 
a  marsh  and  the  word  "evolution."  .  .  .  And  then,  up  on  the 
low  hilltop,  Dilsey  and  Plutus  lit  the  lamps,  and  the  house 
had  a  row  of  topaz  eyes;  —  and  here  was  the  cedar  at  the 
little  gate,  and  the  smell  of  box  —  box  smell  was  always  of  a 
very  especial  character,  dark  in  hue,  cool  in  temperature, 
and  quite  unfathomably  old.  The  four  passed  through  the 
house  gate  and  went  up  the  winding  path  between  the  box 
and  the  old,  old  blush  roses  —  and  here  was  the  old  house 
dog  Roger  fawning  on  the  Colonel  —  and  the  topaz  eyes 
were  growing  bigger,  bigger.  .  .  . 

"  I  am  glad  to  get  home,"  said  Miss  Serena,  in  front.  "  It 's 
curious  how,  every  time  you  go  from  home,  something  hap 
pens  to  cure  you  of  a  roving  disposition." 

Captain  Bob  laughed.    "Never  knew  you  had  a  roving 


GILEAD  BALM  13 

disposition,  Serena!  Luna  here,  now,  —  Luna 's  got  a  roving 
disposition  —  have  n't  you,  old  girl?" 

"Luna,"  replied  Miss  Serena  with  some  asperity,  "Luna 
makes  no  effort  to  alter  her  disposition.  I  do.  Everybody 's 
got  tendencies  and  notions  that  it  is  their  bounden  duty  to 
suppress.  If  they  don't,  it  leads  to  all  kind  of  changes  and 
upheavals.  —  And  that  is  what  I  criticize  in  Maria.  She 
makes  no  effort,  either.  It 's  most  unfortunate." 

The  Colonel,  in  front  of  them  all,  moved  on  with  a  fine 
serenity.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat,  and  in  the  yet  warm  glow 
the  grey-amber  of  his  hair  seemed  fairly  luminous.  As  he 
walked  he  looked  appreciatively  up  at  the  evening  star.  He 
read  poetry  with  a  fine,  discriminating,  masculine  taste,  and 
now,  with  a  gesture  toward  the  star,  he  repeated  a  line  of 
Byron.  Maria  and  her  idiosyncrasies  troubled  him  only 
when  they  stood  actually  athwart  his  path;  certainly  he  had 
never  brooded  upon  them,  nor  turned  them  over  in  his  hand 
and  looked  at  them.  She  was  his  son's  wife  —  more,  he  was 
inclined  to  think,  the  pity!  She  was,  therefore,  Ashendyne, 
and  she  was  housed  at  Gilead  Balm.  He  was  inclined  to  be 
fond  of  the  child  Hagar.  As  for  his  son  —  the  Colonel,  in  his 
cooler  moments,  supposed,  damn  it!  that  he  and  Medway 
were  too  much  alike  to  get  on  together.  At  any  rate,  what 
ever  the  reason,  they  did  not  get  on  together.  Gilead  Balm 
had  not  seen  the  younger  Ashendyne  for  some  years.  He 
was  in  Europe,  whence  he  wrote,  at  very  long  intervals,  an 
amiable  traveller's  letter.  Neither  had  he  and  Maria  gotten 
on  well  together. 

The  house  grew  large,  filling  all  the  foreground.  The  topaz 
eyes  changed  to  a  wide,  soft,  diffused  light,  pouring  from 


14  HAGAR 

windows  and  the  open  hall  door.  In  it  now  appeared  the 
figures  of  the  elder  Mrs.  Ashendyne,  of  the  Bishop,  and 
Mrs.  LeGrand,  coming  out  upon  the  porch  to  welcome  the 
travellers. 

Hagar  took  her  grandmother's  kiss  and  Mrs.  LeGrand's 
kiss  and  the  Bishop's  kiss,  and  then,  after  a  few  moments  of 
standing  still  in  the  hall  while  the  agreeable,  southern  voices 
rose  and  fell,  she  stole  away,  went  up  the  shallow,  worn  stair 
way,  turned  to  the  left,  and  opened  the  door  of  her  mother's 
room.  She  opened  it  softly.  "Uncle  Plutus  says  you  've  got 
a  headache." 

Maria's  voice  came  from  the  sofa  in  the  window.  "Yes, 
I  have.  Shut  the  door  softly,  and  don't  let  us  have  any  light. 
But  I  don't  mind  your  sitting  by  me." 

The  couch  was  deep  and  heaped  with  pillows.  Maria's 
slight,  small  form  was  drawn  up  in  a  corner,  her  head  high, 
her  hands  twisted  and  locked  about  her  knees.  She  wore  a 
soft  white  wrapper,  tied  beneath  her  breast  with  a  purple 
ribbon.  She  had  beautiful  hair.  Thick  and  long  and  dusky, 
it  was  now  loosened  and  spread  until  it  made  a  covering  for 
the  pillows.  Out  from  its  waves  looked  her  small  face,  still 
and  exhausted.  The  headache,  after  having  lasted  all  day, 
was  going  away  now  at  twilight.  She  just  turned  her  dark 
eyes  upon  her  daughter.  "I  don't  mind  your  lying  down 
beside  me,"  she  said.  "There's  room.  Only  don't  jar  my 
head — "  Hagar  lay  carefully  down  upon  the  couch,  her 
head  in  the  hollow  of  her  mother's  arm.  "Did  you  have  a 
good  time?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Pretty  good." 

"What  did  you  do?" 


GILEAD  BALM  15 

"There  was  another  little  girl  named  Sylvie.  We  played 
in  the  hayloft,  and  we  made  willow  baskets,  and  we  cut 
paper  dolls  out  of  a  'Godey's  Lady's  Book.'  I  named  mine 
Lucy  Ashton  and  Diana  Vernon  and  Rebecca,  and  she  did  n't 
know  any  good  names,  so  I  named  hers  for  her.  We  named 
them  Rosalind  and  Cordelia  and  Vashti.  Then  there  was 
a  lady  who  played  backgammon  with  me,  and  I  read  two 
books." 

"What  were  they?" 

"One  was  'Gulliver's  Travels.'  I  did  n't  like  it  altogether, 
though  I  liked  some  of  it.  The  other  was  Shelley's  '  Shorter 
Poems.'  Oh"  —  Hagar  rose  to  a  sitting  posture  —  "I  liked 
that  better  than  anything  I've  ever  read  — " 

"You  are  young  to  be  reading  Shelley,"  said  her  mother. 
She  spoke  with  her  lips  only,  her  young,  pain-stilled  face 
high  upon  the  pillows.  "What  did  you  like  best?" 

Hagar  pondered  it.  "I  liked  the  'Cloud,'  and  I  liked  the 
'West  Wind,'  and  I  liked  the  'Spirit  of  Night'  — " 

Some  one  tapped  at  the  door,  and  then  without  waiting  for 
an  answer  opened  it.  The  elder  Mrs.  Ashendyne  entered. 
Hagar  slipped  from  the  sofa  and  Maria  changed  her  position, 
though  very  slightly.  "Come  in,"  she  said,  though  Mrs. 
Ashendyne  was  already  in. 

"Old  Miss,"  as  the  major  part  of  Gilead  Balm  called  her, 
Old  Miss  crossed  the  room  with  a  stately  tread  and  took  the 
winged  chair.  She  intended  tarrying  but  a  moment,  but  she 
was  a  woman  who  never  stood  to  talk.  She  always  sat  down 
like  a  regent,  and  the  standing  was  done  by  others.  She  was  a 
large  woman,  tall  rather  than  otherwise,  of  a  distinct  come 
liness,  and  authoritative  —  oh,  authoritative  from  her  black 


16  HAGAR 

lace  cap  on  her  still  brown,  smoothly  parted  hair,  to  her  low- 
heeled  list  shoes,  black  against  her  white  stockings!  Now 
she  folded  her  hands  upon  her  black  stuff  skirt  and  regarded 
Maria.  "Are  you  better?" 

"Yes,  thank  you." 

"If  you  would  take  my  advice,"  said  Mrs.  Ashendyne, 
"and  put  horseradish  leaves  steeped  in  hot  water  to  your 
forehead  and  the  back  of  your  neck,  you  would  find  it  a 
great  relief." 

"I  had  some  lavender  water,"  said  Maria. 

"The  horseradish  would  have  been  far  better.  Are  you 
coming  to  supper?" 

'  "No,  I  think  not.  I  do  not  care  for  anything.  I  am  not 
hungry." 

"  I  will  have  Phoebe  fetch  you  a  little  thin  chipped  beef  and 
a  beaten  biscuit  and  a  cup  of  coffee.  You  must  eat.  —  If  you 
gave  way  less  it  would  be  better  for  you." 

Maria  looked  at  her  with  sombre  eyes.  At  once  the  fingers 
slipped  to  other  and  deeper  notes.  "If  I  gave  way  less.  .  .  . 
Well,  yes,  I  do  give  way.  I  have  never  seen  how  not  to.  I 
suppose  if  I  were  cleverer  and  braver,  I  should  see — " 

"What  I  mean,"  said  Old  Miss  with  dignity,  "is  that  the 
Lord,  for  his  own  good  purposes,  —  and  it  is  sinful  to  ques 
tion  his  purposes,  —  regulated  society  as  it  is  regulated,  and 
placed  women  where  they  are  placed.  No  one  claims  —  cer 
tainly  I  don't  claim  —  that  women  as  women  do  not  see  a 
great  deal  of  hardship.  The  Bible  gives  us  to  understand  that 
it  is  their  punishment.  Then  I  say  take  your  punishment 
with  meekness.  It  is  possible  that  by  doing  so  you  may  help 
earn  remission  for  all." 


GILEAD  BALM  17 

"There  was  always,"  said  Maria,  "something  frightful  to 
me  in  the  old  notion  of  whipping-boys  for  kings  and  princes. 
How  very  bad  to  be  the  whipping-boy,  and  how  infinitely 
worse  to  be  the  king  or  prince  whose  whipping-boy  you 
were!" 

A  red  came  into  Mrs.  Ashendyne's  face.  "You  are  at 
times  positively  blasphemous!"  she  said.  "I  do  not  at  all  see 
of  what,  personally,  you  have  to  complain.  If  Medway  is 
estranged  from  you,  you  have  probably  only  yourself  to 
thank—" 

"I  never  wish,"  said  Maria,  "to  see  Medway  again." 

Medway's  mother  rose  with  stateliness  from  the  winged 
chair.  "When  it  comes  to  statements  like  that  from  a  wife, 
it  is  time  for  old-fashioned  people  like  myself  to  take  our 
leave.  —  Phoebe  shall  bring  you  your  supper.  Hagar,  you 
had  better  come  with  me." 

"Leave  Hagar  here,"  said  the  other. 

"The  bell  will  ring  in  ten  minutes.   Come,  child!" 

"Stay  where  you  are,  Hagar.  When  the  bell  rings,  she 
shall  come." 

The  elder  Mrs.  Ashendyne's  voice  deepened.  "It  is  hard 
for  me  to  see  the  mind  of  my  son's  child  perverted,  filled 
with  all  manner  of  foolish  queries  and  rebellions." 

"Your  son's  child,"  answered  Maria  from  among  her  pil 
lows,  "happens  to  be  also  my  child.  His  family  has  just  had 
her  for  a  solid  week.  Now,  pray  let  me  have  her  for  an  hour." 
Her  eyes,  dark  and  large  in  her  thin,  young  face,  narrowed 
until  the  lashes  met.  "I  am  perfectly  aware  of  how  deplor 
able  is  the  whole  situation.  If  I  were  wiser  and  stronger  and 
more  heroic,  I  suppose  I  should  break  through  it.  I  suppose 


i8  HAGAR 

I  should  go  away  with  Hagar.  I  suppose  I  should  learn  to 
work.  I  suppose  I  should  somehow  keep  us  both.  I  sup 
pose  I  might  live  again.  I  suppose  I  might  .  .  .  even  .  .  . 
get  a  divorce — " 

Her  mother-in-law  towered.  "The  Bishop  shall  talk  to  you 
the  first  thing  in  the  morning — " 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   DESCENT   OF   MAN 

A  POOL  of  June  sunlight  lay  on  the  library  floor.  It  made  a 
veritable  Pool  of  Siloam,  with  all  around  a  brown,  bank-like 
duskiness.  The  room  was  by  no  means  book-lined,  but  there 
were  four  tall  mahogany  cases,  one  against  each  wall,  well 
filled  for  the  most  part  with  mellow  calf.  Flanking  each  case 
hung  Ashendyne  portraits,  in  oval,  very  old  gilt  frames.  Be 
neath  three  of  these  were  fixed  silhouettes  of  Revolutionary 
Ashendynes;  beneath  the  others,  war  photographs,  cartes  de 
visite,  a  dozen  in  one  frame.  There  was  a  mahogany  escri 
toire  and  mahogany  chairs  and  a  mahogany  table,  and,  be 
fore  the  fireplace,  a  fire-screen  done  in  cross-stitch  by  a  colon 
ial  Ashendyne.  The  curtains  were  down  for  the  summer,  and 
the  dark,  polished  floor  was  bare.  The  room  was  large,  and 
there  presided  a  pleasant  sense  of  unencumbered  space  and 
coolness. 

In  the  parlour,  across  the  hall,  Miss  Serena  had  been  al 
lowed  full  power.  Here  there  was  a  crocheted  macrame  lam 
brequin  across  the  mantel-shelf,  and  a  plush  table-scarf 
worked  with  chenille,  and  fine  thread  tidies  for  the  chairs,  and 
a  green-and-white  worsted  " water-lily"  mat  for  the  lamp, 
and  embroidery  on  the  piano  cover.  Here  were  pelargoniums 
and  azaleas  painted  on  porcelain  placques,  and  a  painted 
screen  —  gladioli  and  calla  lilies,  —  and  autumn  leaves 
mounted  on  the  top  of  a  small  table,  and  a  gilded  milking 


20  HAGAR 

stool,  and  gilded  cat-tails  in  decalcomania  jars.  But  the 
Colonel  had  barred  off  the  library.  "Embroider  petticoat- 
world  to  the  top  of  your  bent  —  but  don't  embroider  books  I" 

The  Colonel  was  not  in  the  library.  He  had  mounted  his 
horse  and  ridden  off  down  the  river  to  see  a  brother-in-law 
about  some  piece  of  business.  Ashendynes  and  Coltsworths 
fairly  divided  the  county  between  them.  Blood  kin  and  mar 
riage  connections,  —  all  counted  to  the  seventeenth  degree, 
—  traditional  old  friendships,  old  acquaintances,  clients, 
tenants,  neighbours,  the  coloured  people  sometime  their  serv 
ants,  folk  generally,  from  Judge  to  blacksmith,  —  the  two 
families  and  their  allies  ramified  over  several  hundred  square 
miles,  and  when  you  said  "the  county,"  what  you  saw  were 
Ashendynes  and  Coltsworths.  They  lived  in  brick  houses  set 
among  green  acres  and  in  frame  houses  facing  village  streets. 
None  were  in  the  least  rich,  a  frightful,  impoverishing  war  be 
ing  no  great  time  behind  them,  and  many  were  poor  —  but 
one  and  all  they  had  "quality." 

The  Colonel  was  gone  down  the  river  to  Hawk  Nest.  Cap 
tain  Bob  was  in  the  stable  yard.  Muffled,  from  the  parlour, 
the  doors  being  carefully  closed,  came  the  notes  of  "Silvery 
Waves."  Miss  Serena  was  practising.  It  was  raspberry-jam 
time  of  year.  In  the  brick  kitchen  out  in  the  yard  Old  Miss 
spent  the  morning  with  her  knitting,  superintending  opera 
tions.  A  great  copper  kettle  sat  on  the  stove.  Between  it  and 
the  window  had  been  placed  a  barrel  and  here  perched  a  half- 
grown  negro  boy,  in  his  hands  a  pole  with  a  paddle-like  cross- 
piece  at  the  further  end.  With  this  he  slowly  stirred,  round 
and  round,  the  bubbling,  viscous  mass  in  the  copper  kettle. 
Kitchen  doors  and  windows  were  wide,  and  in  came  the  hum 


THE  DESCENT   OF  MAN  21 

of  bees  and  the  fresh  June  air,  and  out  floated  delectable 
odours  of  raspberry  jam.  Old  Miss  sat  in  an  ample  low  chair 
in  the  doorway,  knitting  white  cotton  socks  for  the  Colonel. 

The  Bishop  —  who  was  a  bishop  from  another  state  — 
was  writing  letters.  Mrs.  LeGrand  had  taken  her  novel  out 
to  the  hammock  beneath  the  cedars.  Upstairs,  in  her  own 
room,  in  a  big  four-poster  bed,  lay  Maria,  ill  with  a  low  fever. 
Dr.  Bude  came  every  other  day,  and  he  said  that  he  hoped 
it  was  nothing  much  but  that  he  could  n't  tell  yet:  Mrs. 
Ashendyne  must  lie  quiet  and  take  the  draught  he  left,  and 
her  room  must  be  kept  still  and  cool,  and  he  would  suggest 
that  Phcebe,  whom  she  seemed  to  like  to  have  about  her, 
should  nurse  her,  and  he  would  suggest,  too,  that  there  be 
no  disturbing  conversation,  and  that,  indeed,  she  be  left  in  the 
greatest  quiet.  It  seemed  nervous  largely  —  "Yes,  yes, 
that's  true!  We  all  ought  to  fight  more  than  we  do.  But  the 
nervous  system  is  n't  the  imaginary  thing  people  think!  She 
is  n't  very  strong,  and  —  wrongly,  of  course  —  she  dashes 
herself  against  conditions  and  environment  like  a  bird  against 
glass.  I  don't  suppose,"  said  Dr.  Bude,  "that  it  would  be 
possible  for  her  to  travel?" 

Maria  lay  in  the  four-poster  bed,  making  images  of  the 
light  and  shadow  in  the  room.  Sometimes  she  asked  for 
Hagar,  and  sometimes  for  hours  she  seemed  to  forget  that 
Hagar  existed.  Old  Miss,  coming  into  the  room  at  one  of 
these  times,  and  seeing  her  push  the  child  from  her  with  a 
frightened  air  and  a  stammering  "I  don't  know  you"  —  Old 
Miss,  later  in  the  day,  took  Hagar  into  her  own  room,  set  her 
in  a  chair  beside  her,  taught  her  a  new  knitting-stitch,  and  ex 
plained  that  it  would  be  kinder  to  remain  out  of  her  mother's 


22  HAGAR 

room,  seeing  that  her  presence  there  evidently  troubled  her 
mother. 

"It  troubles  her  sometimes,"  said  Hagar,  "but  it  does  n't 
trouble  her  most  times.  Most  times  she  likes  me  there." 

"I  do  not  think  you  can  judge  of  that,"  said  her  grand 
mother.  "At  any  rate,  I  think  it  best  that  you  should  stay 
out  of  the  room.  You  can,  of  course,  go  in  to  say  good-morn 
ing  and  good-night.  —  Throw  the  thread  over  your  finger  like 
that.  Mirny  is  making  sugar-cakes  this  morning,  and  if  you 
want  to  you  can  help  her  cut  them  out." 

"Grandmother,  please  let  me  go  four  times  a  day — " 

"No.  I  do  not  consider  it  best  for  either  of  you.  You 
heard  the  doctor  say  that  your  mother  must  not  be  agitated, 
and  you  saw  yourself,  a  while  ago,  that  she  did  not  seem  to 
want  you.  I  will  tell  Phoebe.  Be  a  good,  obedient  child!  — 
Bring  me  the  bag  yonder,  and  let's  see  if  we  can't  find  enough 
pink  worsted  for  a  doll's  afghan." 

That  had  been  two  days  ago.  Hagar  went,  morning  and 
evening,  to  her  mother's  room,  and  sometimes  Maria  knew 
her  and  held  her  hands  and  played  with  her  hair,  and  some 
times  she  did  not  seem  to  know  her  and  ignored  her  or  talked 
to  her  as  a  stranger.  Her  grandmother  told  her  to  pray  for 
her  mother's  recovery.  She  did  not  need  the  telling;  she  loved 
her  mother,  and  her  petitions  were  frequent.  Sometimes  she 
got  down  on  her  knees  to  make  them;  sometimes  she  just 
made  them  walking  around.  "O  God,  save  my  mother.  For 
Jesus'  sake.  Amen."  —  "O  God,  let  my  mother  get  well. 
For  Jesus'  sake.  Amen."  —  She  had  finished  the  pink  afghan, 
and  she  had  done  the  dusting  and  errands  her  grandmother 
appointed  her.  This  morning  they  had  let  her  arrange 


THE  DESCENT   OF   MAN  23 

the  flowers  in  the  bowls  and  vases.  She  always  liked  to  do 
that,  and  she  had  been  happy  for  almost  an  hour  —  but 
then  the  feeling  came  back.  .  .  . 

The  bright  pool  on  the  library  floor  did  not  reach  to  the 
bookcases.  They  were  all  in  the  gold-dust  powdered  umber 
of  the  rest  of  the  room.  Hagar  standing  before  one  of  them, 
first  on  a  hassock,  and  then,  for  the  upper  shelves,  on  a  chair, 
hunted  something  to  read.  "Ministering  Children"  —  she 
had  read  it.  "Stepping  Heavenward"  —  she  had  read  it. 
"Home  Influence"  and  "Mother's  Recompense"  —  she  had 
read  them.  Mrs.  Sherwood  —  she  had  read  Mrs.  Sherwood  — 
many  volumes  of  Mrs.  Sherwood.  In  after  life  it  was  only 
by  a  violent  effort  that  she  dismissed,  in  favour  of  any  other 
India,  the  spectre  of  Mrs.  Sherwood's  India.  "Parent's  As 
sistant  and  Moral  Tales"  —  she  knew  Simple  Susan  and 
Rosamond  and  all  of  them  by  heart.  "Rasselas"  —  she  had 
read  it.  "Scottish  Chiefs"  —  she  had  read  it.  The  forms  of 
Wallace  and  Helen  and  Murray  and  Edwin  flitted  through 
her  mind  —  she  half  put  out  her  hand  to  the  book,  then  with 
drew  it.  She  was  n't  at  all  happy,  and  she  wanted  novelty. 
Miss  Miihlbach  —  "Prince  Eugene  and  His  Times"  — 
"Napoleon  and  Marie  Louise"  —  she  had  read  those,  too. 
"The  Draytons  and  the  Davenants"  —  she  half  thought  she 
would  read  about  Olive  and  Roger  again,  but  at  last  she 
passed  them  by  also.  There  was  n't  anything  on  that  shelf 
she  wanted.  She  called  it  the  blue  and  green  and  red  shelf, 
because  the  books  were  bound  in  those  colours.  Miss  Serena's 
name  was  in  most  of  these  volumes. 

The  shelf  that  she  undertook  next  had  another  air.  To 
Hagar  each  case  had  its  own  air,  and  each  shelf  its  own  air, 


24  HAGAR 

and  each  book  its  own  air.  "Blair's  Rhetoric"  —  she  had 
read  some  of  that,  but  she  did  n't  want  it  to-day.  "Pilgrim's 
Progress"  —  she  knew  that  by  heart.  "Burke's  Speeches" 
—  "  Junius  "  —  she  had  read  "  Junius,"  as  she  had  read  many 
another  thing  simply  because  it  was  there,  and  a  book  was 
a  book.  She  had  read  it  without  much  understanding,  but 
she  liked  the  language.  Milton  —  she  knew  a  great  part  of 
Milton,  but  to-day  she  did  n't  want  poetry.  Poetry  was  for 
when  you  were  happy.  Scott  —  on  another  day  Scott 
might  have  sufficed,  but  to-day  she  wanted  something  new  — 
so  new  and  so  interesting  that  it  would  make  the  hard,  un 
happy  feeling  go  away.  She  stepped  from  the  hassock  upon 
the  chair  and  began  to  study  the  titles  of  the  books  on  al 
most  the  top  shelf.  .  .  .  There  was  one  in  the  corner,  quite 
out  of  sight  unless  you  were  on  a  chair,  right  up  here,  face  to 
face  with  the  shelf.  The  book  was  even  pushed  back  as  though 
it  had  retired  —  or  had  been  retired  —  behind  its  fellows  so 
as  to  be  out  of  danger,  or,  perhaps,  out  of  the  way  of  being 
dangerous.  Hagar  put  in  her  slender,  sun-browned  hand  and 
drew  it  forward  until  she  could  read  the  legend  on  the  back  — 
"The  Descent  of  Man."  She  drew  it  quite  forth,  and  bring 
ing  both  hands  into  play  opened  it.  "By  Charles  Darwin." 
She  turned  the  leaves.  There  were  woodcuts  —  cuts  that 
exercised  a  fascination.  She  glanced  at  the  first  page:  "He 
who  wishes  to  decide  whether  man  is  the  modified  descendant 
of  some  preexisting  form — " 

Hagar  turned  upon  the  chair  and  looked  about  her.  The 
room  was  a  desert  for  solitude  and  balmy  quiet.  Distantly, 
through  the  closed  parlour  doors,  came  Miss  Serena's  render 
ing  of  "Monastery  Bells."  She  knew  that  her  grandfather 


THE   DESCENT   OF   MAN  25 

was  down  the  river,  and  that  her  grandmother  was  making 
raspberry  jam.  She  knew  that  the  Bishop  was  in  his  room, 
and  that  Mrs.  LeGrand  was  out  under  the  cedars.  Uncle 
Bob  did  not  count  anyway  —  he  rarely  asked  embarrassing 
questions.  She  may  have  hesitated  one  moment,  but  no 
more.  She  got  down  from  the  chair,  put  it  back  against  the 
wall,  closed  the  bookcase  door,  and  taking  the  "Descent  of 
Man"  with  her  went  over  to  the  old,  worn  horsehair  sofa 
and  curled  herself  up  at  the  end  in  a  cool  and  slippery  hol 
low.  A  gold-dust  shaft,  slipping  through  the  window,  lit  her 
hair,  the  printed  page,  and  the  slim,  long-fingered  hand  that 
clasped  it. 

Hagar  knew  quite  well  what  she  was  doing.  She  was  going 
to  read  a  book  which,  if  her  course  were  known,  she  would 
be  forbidden  to  read.  It  had  happened  before  now  that  she 
had  read  books  under  the  ban  of  Gilead  Balm.  But  hereto 
fore  she  had  always  been  able  to  say  that  she  had  not  known 
that  they  were  so,  had  not  known  she  was  doing  wrong.  That 
could  not  be  said  in  this  case.  Aunt  Serena  had  distinctly 
told  her  that  Charles  Darwin  was  a  wicked  and  irreligious 
man,  and  that  no  lady  would  read  his  books.  .  .  .  But  then 
Aunt  Serena  had  unsparingly  condemned  other  books  which 
Hagar's  mind  yet  refused  to  condemn.  She  had  condemned 
"The  Scarlet  Letter."  When  Gilead  Balm  discovered  Hagar 
at  the  last  page  of  that  book,  there  had  ensued  a  family  dis 
cussion.  Miss  Serena  said  that  she  blushed  when  she  thought 
of  the  things  that  Hagar  was  learning.  The  Colonel  had  not 
blushed,  but  he  said  that  such  books  unsettled  all  received 
notions,  and  while  he  supported  her  he  was  n't  going  to  have 
Medway's  child  imbibing  damned  anarchical  sentiments  of 


26  HAGAR 

any  type.  Old  Miss  said  a  number  of  things,  most  of  which 
tended  toward  Maria.  The  latter  had  defended  her  daughter, 
but  afterwards  she  told  Hagar  that  in  this  world,  even  if  you 
did  n't  think  you  were  doing  wrong,  it  made  for  all  the 
happiness  there  seemed  to  be  not  to  do  what  other  people 
thought  you  ought  not  to  do.  ...  But  Hagar  did  n't  believe 
yet  that  there  was  anything  wrong  in  reading  "The  Scarlet 
Letter."  She  had  been  passionately  sorry  for  Hester,  and  she 
had  felt  —  she  did  not  know  why  —  a  kind  of  terrified  pity 
for  Mr.  Dimmesdale,  and  she  had  loved  little  Pearl.  She  had 
intended  asking  her  mother  what  the  red-cloth  letter  that 
Hester  Prynne  wore  meant,  but  it  had  gone  out  of  her  mind. 
The  chapter  she  liked  best  was  the  one  with  little  Pearl 
playing  in  the  wood.  .  .  .  Perhaps  Aunt  Serena,  having  been 
mistaken  about  that  book,  was  mistaken,  too,  about  Charles 
Darwin. 

Neither  now  nor  later  did  she  in  any  wise  love  the  feel  of 
wrong-doing.  Forbidden  fruit  did  not  appeal  to  her  merely  be 
cause  it  was  forbidden.  But  if  there  was  no  inner  forbidding, 
if  she  truly  doubted  the  justice  or  authority  or  abstract 
Tightness  of  the  restraining  hand,  she  was  capable  of  attain 
ing  the  fruit  whether  forbidden  or  no.  There  was  always  the 
check  of  great  native  kindliness.  If  what  she  wanted  to 
do  was  going  —  no  matter  how  senselessly  —  to  trouble  or 
hurt  other  people's  feelings,  on  the  whole  she  would  n't  do 
it.  In  the  case  of  this  June  day  and  the  "Descent  of  Man" 
the  library  was  empty.  She  only  wanted  to  look  at  the  pic 
tures  and  to  run  over  the  reading  enough  to  see  what  it  was 
about  —  then  she  would  put  it  back  on  the  top  shelf.  She  was 
not  by  nature  indirect  or  secretive.  She  preferred  to  go 


THE  DESCENT  OF  MAN  27 

straightforwardly,  to  act  in  the  open.  But  if  the  wall  of  not- 
agreed-in  objection  stood  too  high  and  thick  before  her,  she 
was  capable  of  stealing  forth  in  the  dusk  and  seeking  a  way 
around  it.  Coiled  now  in  the  cool  hollow  of  the  sofa,  half  in 
and  half  out  of  the  shaft  of  sunshine,  she  began  to  read. 

The  broad  band  of  gold-dust  shifted  place.  Miss  Serena, 
arrived  at  the  last  ten  minutes  of  her  hour  and  a  half  at  the 
piano,  began  to  play  "Pearls  and  Roses."  Out  in  the  brick 
kitchen  Old  Miss  dropped  a  tablespoonful  of  raspberry  jam 
into  a  saucer,  let  it  cool,  tasted,  and  pronounced  it  done.  The 
negro  boy  and  Mirny  between  them  lifted  the  copper  kettle 
from  the  stove.  Upstairs  in  Gilead  Balm's  best  room  the 
Bishop  folded  and  slipped  into  an  addressed  envelope  the  last 
letter  he  was  going  to  write  that  morning.  Out  under  the 
cedars  Mrs.  LeGrand  came  to  a  dull  stretch  in  her  novel.  She 
yawned,  closed  the  book,  and  leaned  back  against  the  pillows 
in  the  hammock. 

Mrs.  LeGrand  was  fair  and  forty,  but  only  pleasantly 
plump.  She  had  a  creamy  skin,  moderately  large,  hazel  eyes, 
moderately  far  apart,  a  small,  straight  nose,  a  yielding  mouth, 
and  a  chin  that  indubitably  would  presently  be  double.  She 
was  a  widow  and  an  orphan.  Married  at  nineteen,  her  hus 
band,  the  stars  of  a  brigadier-general  upon  his  grey  collar, 
had  within  the  year  fallen  upon  some  one  of  the  blood-soaked 
battle-grounds  of  the  state.  Her  father,  the  important  bearer 
of  an  old,  important  name,  had  served  the  Confederacy  well 
in  a  high  civil  capacity.  When  the  long  horror  of  the  war  was 
over,  and  the  longer,  miserable  torture  of  the  Reconstruction 
was  passing,  and  a  comparative  ease  and  pale  dawn  of  pros 
perity  rose  over  the  state,  Mrs.  LeGrand  looked  about  her 


28  HAGAR 

from  the  remnant  of  an  old  plantation  on  the  edge  of  a  tide 
water  town.  The  house  was  dilapidated,  but  large.  The 
grounds  had  Old  Neglect  for  gardener,  but  they,  too,  were 
large,  and  only  needed  Good-Care-at-Last  for  complete  re 
habilitation.  Mrs.  LeGrand  had  a  kind  of  smooth,  continu 
ous,  low-pressure  energy,  but  no  money.  "A  girls'  school," 
she  murmured  to  herself. 

When  she  wrote,  here  and  there  over  the  state,  it  was  at 
once  seen  by  her  correspondents  that  this  was  just  the  thing 
for  the  daughter  of  a  public  man  and  the  widow  of  a  gallant 
officer.  It  was  both  ladylike  and  possible.  .  .  .  That  was  some 
years  ago.  Mrs.  LeGrand's  School  for  Young  Ladies  was  now 
an  established  fact.  The  house  was  repaired,  the  grounds 
were  trim,  there  was  a  corps  of  six  teachers,  with  prospects 
of  expansion,  there  were  day  pupils  and  boarding  pupils.  Mrs 
LeGrand  saw  in  her  mind's  eye  long  wing-like  extensions  to 
the  main  house  where  more  boarding  pupils  might  be  accom 
modated.  .  .  .  She  was  successful,  and  success  agreed  with 
her.  The  coat  grew  sleek,  the  cream  rose  to  the  top,  every 
angle  disappeared;  she  was  warmly  optimistic,  and  smooth, 
indolent  good  company.  In  the  summer-time  she  left  Eg 
lantine  and  from  late  June  to  September  shared  her  time  be 
tween  the  Springs  and  the  country  homes  of  kindred,  family 
connections,  or  girlhood  friends.  She  nearly  always  came  for 
a  fortnight  or  more  to  Gilead  Balm. 

Now,  leaning  back  in  the  hammock,  the  novel  shut,  her 
eyes  closed,  she  was  going  pleasantly  over  to  herself  the  addi 
tions  and  improvements  to  be  carried  out  at  Eglantine. 
From  this  her  mind  slipped  to  her  correspondence  with  a 
French  teacher  who  promised  well,  and  thence  to  certain 


THE   DESCENT    OF   MAN  29 

letters  received  that  week  from  patrons  with  daughters.  One 
of  these,  from  a  state  farther  south,  spoke  in  highest  praise 
of  Mrs.  LeGrand's  guardianship  of  the  young  female  mind,  of 
the  safe  and  elegant  paths  into  which  she  guided  it,  and  of  her 
gift  generally  for  preserving  dew  and  bloom  and  ignorance  of 
evil  in  her  interesting  charges.  Every  one  likes  praise  and  no 
one  is  so  churlish  as  to  refuse  a  proffered  bouquet  or  to  doubt 
the  judgment  of  the  donor.  Mrs.  LeGrand  experienced  from 
head  to  foot  a  soft  and  amiable  glow. 

For  ten  minutes  longer  she  lay  in  an  atmosphere  of  balm, 
then  she  opened  her  eyes,  drew  her  watch  from  her  white- 
ribbon  belt,  and  glancing  at  it  surmised  that  by  now  the 
Bishop  might  have  finished  his  letters.  Upon  this  thought 
she  rose,  and  paced  across  the  bright  June  grass  to  the  house. 
"Pearls  and  Roses"  floated  from  the  parlour.  Her  hand 
on  the  doorknob,  Mrs.  LeGrand  paused  irresolutely  for 
a  moment,  then  lightly  took  it  away  and  crossed  the  hall 
to  the  library.  A  minute  later  the  Bishop,  portly  and  fine, 
letters  in  his  hand,  came  down  the  stairs,  and  turned  toward 
this  room.  The  mail-bag  always  hung,  he  remembered,  by 
the  library  escritoire.  Though  he  was  a  large  man,  he  moved 
with  great  lightness;  he  was  at  once  ponderous  and  easy. 
Miss  Serena  at  the  piano  could  hardly  have  heard  him 
pass  the  door,  so  something  occult,  perhaps,  made  her  ignore 
the  da  capo  over  the  bar  of  "Pearls  and  Roses"  which  she 
had  now  reached.  She  struck  a  final  chord,  rose,  closed  the 
piano,  and  left  the  parlour. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    CONVICT 

dear  Bishop!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  LeGrand;  "won't  you 
come  here  and  talk  to  this  little  girl?" 

"To  Hagar?"  answered  the  Bishop.  "What  is  the  trouble 
with  Hagar?  Have  you  broken  your  doll,  poor  dear?"  He 
came  easily  across  to  the  horsehair  sofa,  a  good  man,  by 
definition,  as  ever  was.  "What's  grieving  you,  little 
girl?" 

"I  think  that  it  is  Hagar  who  may  come  to  grieve  others," 
said  Mrs.  LeGrand.  "I  do  not  suppose  it  is  my  business  to 
interfere,  —  as  I  should  interfere  were  she  in  my  charge  at 
Eglantine,  —  but  I  cannot  but  see  in  my  daily  task  how  diffi 
cult  it  is  to  eradicate  from  a  youthful  mind  the  stain  that  has 
been  left  by  an  improper  book — " 

"An  improper  book!  What  are  you  doing,  Hagar,  with  an 
improper  book?" 

The  Bishop  put  out  his  hand  and  took  it.  He  looked  at  the 
title  and  at  the  author's  name  beneath,  turned  over  a  dozen 
pages,  closed  the  book,  and  put  it  from  him  on  the  cold,  bare 
mahogany  table.  "  It  was  not  for  this  that  I  christened  you," 
he  said. 

Miss  Serena  joined  the  group. 

"Serena,"  appealed  Mrs.  LeGrand,  "do  you  think  Hagar 
ought  to  be  allowed  to  contaminate  her  mind  by  a  book  like 
that?" 


THE   CONVICT  31 

Miss  Serena  looked.  "That  child!  —  She's  been  reading 
Darwin!" 

A  slow  colour  came  into  her  cheeks.  The  book  was  shock 
ing,  but  the  truly  shocking  thing  was  how  absolutely  Hagar 
had  disobeyed.  Miss  Serena's  soul  was  soft  as  wax,  pliant  as 
a  reed  to  the  authorities  her  world  ranged  before  her.  By  an 
inevitable  reaction  stiffness  showed  in  the  few  cases  where 
she  herself  held  the  orb  of  authority.  To  be  disobeyed  was 
very  grievous  to  her.  Where  it  was  only  negligence  in  regard 
to  some  command  of  her  own,  —  direction  to  a  servant,  com 
mands  in  her  Sunday-School  class,  —  she  had  often  to  put 
up  with  it,  though  always  with  a  swelling  sense  of  injury. 
But  when  things  combined,  when  disobedience  to  Serena 
Ashendyne  was  also  disobedience  to  the  constituted  author 
ities,  Miss  Serena  became  adamant. 

Now  she  looked  at  Hagar  with  a  little  gasp,  and  then,  see 
ing  through  the  open  door  the  elder  Mrs.  Ashendyne  entering 
from  the  kitchen,  she  called  to  her.  "Mother,  come  here  a 
moment!"  .  .  . 

"If  she  had  said  that  she  was  sorry,"  pronounced  the 
Bishop,  "you  might  forgive  her,  I  think,  this  time.  But  if  she 
is  going  to  harden  her  heart  like  that,  you  had  best  let  her  see 
that  all  sin,  in  whatever  degree,  brings  suffering.  And  I  should 
suit,  I  think,  the  punishment  to  the  offence.  Hagar  told  me 
only  yesterday  that  she  had  rather  read  a  book  than  gather 
cherries  or  play  with  dolls,  or  go  visiting,  or  anything.  I 
think  I  should  forbid  her  to  open  any  book  at  all  for  a  week." 

Behind  Gilead  Balm,  beyond  the  orchard  and  a  strip  of 
meadow,  sprang  a  ridge  of  earth,  something  more  than  a  hill, 
something  less  than  a  low  mountain.  It  was  safe,  dry,  warm, 


32  HAGAR 

and  sandy,  too  cut-over  and  traversed  to  be  popular  with 
snakes,  too  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  overseer's  house 
and  the  overseer's  dogs  to  be  subject  to  tramps  or  squirrel- 
hunting  boys,  just  wooded  enough  and  furrowed  with  shallow 
ravines  to  make  it  to  children  a  romantic,  sprite-inhabited 
region.  When  children  came  to  Gilead  Balm,  as  sometimes, 
in  the  slow,  continuous  procession  through  the  houses  of  a 
people  who  traditionally  kept  "open  house,"  they  did  come, 
Hagar  and  they  always  played  freely  and  alone  on  the  home 
ward-facing  side  of  the  ridge.  When  the  overseer's  grand 
children,  too,  came  to  visit  him,  they  and  Hagar  played  here, 
and  sometimes  Mary  Magazine,  Isham  and  Car' line's  ten- 
year-old  at  the  Ferry,  was  allowed  to  spend  the  day,  and  she 
and  Hagar  played  together  on  the  ridge.  Hagar  was  very 
fond  of  Mary  Magazine. 

One  day,  having  completed  her  circle  of  flower  dolls  before 
her  companion's  was  done,  she  leaned  back  against  the  apple 
tree  beneath  which  the  two  were  seated  and  thoughtfully 
regarded  the  other's  down-bent  brown  face  and  "wrapped" 
hair.  "Mary  Magazine,  you  could  n't  have  been  named 
'Mary  Magazine.'  You  were  named  Mary  Magdalene." 

"No'm,"  said  Mary  Magazine,  a  pink  morning-glory  in  one 
hand  and  a  blue  one  in  the  other.  "No'm.  I'm  named  Mary 
Magazine.  My  mammy  done  named  me  for  de  lady  what 
took  her  cologne  bottle  somebody  give  her  Christmas,  an' 
poured  it  on  her  han'  an'  rubbed  Jesus'  feet." 

When  Mary  Magazine  did  n't  come  to  Gilead  Balm  and 
no  children  were  staying  in  the  house,  and  the  overseer's 
grandchildren  were  at  their  home  on  the  other  side  of  the 
county,  Hagar  might  —  provided  always  she  let  some  one 


THE  CONVICT  33 

know  where  she  was  going  —  Hagar  might  play  alone  on  the 
ridge.  To-day,  having  asked  the  Colonel  if  she  might,  she  was 
playing  there  alone. 

"Playing"  was  the  accepted  word.  They  always  talked  of 
her  as  "playing,"  and  she  herself  repeated  the  word. 

"May  I  go  play  awhile  on  the  ridge?" 

"I  reckon  so,  Gipsy.  Wear  your  sunbonnet  and  don't  get 
into  any  mischief." 

At  the  overseer's  house  she  stopped  to  talk  with  Mrs. 
Green,  picking  pease  in  the  garden.  "Mahnin',  Hagar,"  said 
Mrs.  Green.  "How's  yo'  ma  this  mahnin'?" 

"I  think  she's  better,  Mrs.  Green.  She  laughed  a  little  this 
morning.  Grandmother  let  me  stay  a  whole  half-hour,  and 
mother  talked  about  her  grandmother,  and  about  picking  up 
shells  on  the  beach,  and  about  a  little  boat  that  she  used  to  go 
out  to  sea  in.  She  said  that  all  last  night  she  felt  that  boat 
beneath  her.  She  laughed  and  said  it  felt  like  going  home.  — 
Only"  —  Hagar  looked  at  Mrs.  Green  with  large,  wistful 
eyes  —  "only  home's  really  Gilead  Balm." 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Green  cheerfully.  She  sat  down 
on  an  overturned  bucket  between  the  green  rows  of  pease, 
and  pushed  back  her  sunbonnet  from  her  kind,  old  wrinkled 
face.  "  I  remember  when  yo'  ma  came  here  jest  as  well.  She 
was  jest  the  loveliest  thing!  —  But  of  course  all  her  own 
people  were  a  good  long  way  off,  and  she  was  a  seafarer  her 
self,  and  she  could  n't  somehow  get  used  to  the  hills.  I  've 
heard  her  say  they  jest  shut  her  in  like  a  prison.  .  .  .  But 
then,  after  a  while,  you  came,  an'  I  reckon,  though  she  says 
things  sometimes,  wherever  you  are  she  feels  to  be  home. 
When  it  comes  to  being  a  woman,  the  good  Lord  has  to  get 


34 


HAGAR 


in  com-pensation  somewhere,  or  I  don't  reckon  none  of  us 
could  stand  it.  —  I'm  glad  she's  better." 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Hagar.  "Can  I  help  you  pick  the  pease, 
Mrs.  Green?" 

"Thank  you,  child,  but  I've  about  picked  the  mess.  You 
goin'  to  play  on  the  ridge?  I  wish  Thomasine  and  Maggie 
and  Corker  were  here  to  play  with  you." 

"I  wish  they  were,"  said  Hagar.  Her  eyes  filled.  "It's  a 
very  lonesome  day.  Yesterday  was  lonesome  and  to-mor 
row's  going  to  be  lonesome — " 

"Have  n't  you  got  a  good  book?  I  never  see  such  a  child 
for  books." 

Two  tears  came  out  of  Hagar's  eyes.  "I  was  reading  a 
book  Aunt  Serena  told  me  not  to  read.  —  And  now  I  'm  not 
to  read  anything  for  a  whole  week." 

"Sho!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Green.  "What  did  you  do  that 
for?  Don't  you  know  that  little  girls  ought  to  mind?" 

Hagarsighed.  "Yes,  I  suppose  they  ought.  .  .  .  Iwishlhad 
now.  ...  It's  so  lonesome  not  to  read  when  your  mother's 
sick  and  grandmother  won't  let  me  go  into  the  room  only  just 
a  little  while  morning  and  evening." 

"Have  n't  you  got  any  pretty  patchwork  nor  nothin'?" 

Hagar  standing  among  the  blush  roses,  looked  at  her  with 
sombre  eyes.  "Mrs.  Green,  I  hate  to  sew." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Green.  "That's  an  awful  thing  to 
say!" 

She  sat  on  the  overturned  bucket,  between  the  pale-green, 
shiny-podded  peavines,  her  friendly  old  face,  knobbed  and 
wrinkled  like  a  Japanese  carving,  gleaming  from  between  the 
faded  blue  slats  of  her  sunbonnet,  and  she  regarded  the 


THE   CONVICT  35 

child  before  her  with  real  concern.  "I  wonder  now,"  she 
said,  "if  you're  goin'  to  grow  up  a  rebel?  Look-a-here, 
honey,  there  ain't  a  mite  of  ease  and  comfort  on  that  road." 

"That's  what  the  Yankees  called  us  all,"  said  Hagar. 
"'  Rebels."' 

"Ah,  I  don't  mean  'rebel'  that-er-way,"  said  Mrs.  Green. 
"There's  lonelier  and  deeper  ways  of  rebellin'.  You  don't 
get  killed  with  an  army  cheerin'  you,  and  newspapers  goin' 
into  black,  and  a  state  full  of  people,  that  were  *  rebels'  too, 
keepin'  your  memory  green,  —  what  happens,  happens  just 
to  you,  by  yourself  without  any  company,  and  no  wreaths  of 
flowers  and  farewell  speeches.  They  just  open  the  door  and 
put  you  out." 

"Out  where?" 

"Out  by  yourself.  Out  of  this  earth's  favour.  And,  though 
we  may  n't  think  it,"  said  Mrs.  Green,  "this  earth's  favour 
is  our  sunshine.  It's  right  hard  to  go  where  there  is  n't  any 
sunshine.  ...  I  don't  know  why  I  'm  talking  like  this  to  you 
—  but  you  're  a  strange  child  and  always  were,  and  I  reckon 
you  come  by  it  honest!"  She  rose  from  among  the  peavines. 
"Well,  I've  been  baking  apple  turnovers,  and  they  ain't 
bad  to  picnic  on!  Suppose  you  take  a  couple  up  on  the 
ridge  with  you." 

There  grew,  on  the  very  top  of  the  ridge,  a  cucumber  tree 
that  Hagar  loved.  Underneath  was  a  little  fine,  sparse  grass 
and  enough  pennyroyal  to  make  the  place  aromatic  when  the 
sunshine  drew  out  all  its  essence,  as  was  the  case  to-day. 
Over  the  light  soil,  between  the  sprigs  of  pennyroyal,  went  a 
line  of  ants  carrying  grains  of  some  pale,  amber-clear  sub 
stance.  Hagar  watched  them  to  their  hill.  When,  one  by  one, 


36  HAGAR 

they  had  entered,  a  second  line  of  foragers  emerged  and  went 
off  to  the  right  through  the  grass.  In  a  little  time  these,  too, 
reappeared,  each  carrying  before  her  a  tiny  bead  of  the  amber 
stuff.  Hagar  watched,  elbows  on  ground  and  chin  on  hands. 
She  had  a  feeling  that  they  were  people,  and  she  tried  giving 
them  names,  but  they  were  so  bewilderingly  alike  that  in  a 
moment  she  could  not  tell  which  was  "Brownie"  and  which 
"Pixie"  and  which  "Slim."  She  turned  upon  her  back  and 
lying  in  the  grass  and  pennyroyal  saw  above  her  only  blue 
sky  and  blue  sky.  She  stared  into  it.  "If  the  angels  were 
sailing  like  the  birds  up  there  and  looking  down  —  and  look 
ing  down  —  we  people  might  seem  all  alike  to  them  —  all 
alike  and  not  doing  things  that  were  very  different  —  all 
alike.  .  .  .  Only  there  are  our  clothes.  Pink  ones  and  blue 
ones  and  white  ones  and  black  ones  and  plaid  ones  and  striped 
ones  —  "  She  stared  at  the  blue  until  she  seemed  to  see  step 
after  step  of  blue,  a  great  ladder  leading  up,  and  then  she 
turned  on  her  side  and  gazed  at  Gilead  Balm  and,  a  mile 
away,  the  canal  and  the  shining  river. 

She  could  see  many  windows,  but  not  her  mother's  window. 
She  had  to  imagine  that.  Lonesomeness  and  ennui,  that  had 
gone  away  for  a  bit  in  the  interest  of  watching  the  ants,  re 
turned  full  force.  She  stood  up  and  cast  about  for  something 
to  break  the  spell. 

The  apple  turnovers  wrapped  in  a  turkey-red,  fringed  nap 
kin,  rested  in  a  small  willow  basket  upon  the  grass.  Hagar 
was  not  hungry,  but  she  considered  that  she  might  as  well 
eat  a  turnover,  and  then  that  she  might  as  well  have  a  party 
and  ask  a  dozen  flower  dolls.  Her  twelve  years  were  as  a  mov 
ing  plateau  —  one  side  a  misty  looming  landscape  of  the 


THE   CONVICT  37 

mind,  older  and  higher  than  her  age  would  forecast;  on  the 
other,  green,  hollow,  daisy-starred  meadows  of  sheer  child 
hood.  Her  attention  passed  from  side  to  side,  and  now  it 
settled  in  the  meadows. 

She  considered  the  grass  beneath  the  cucumber  tree  for  a 
dining-room,  and  then  she  grew  aware  that  she  was  thirsty, 
and  so  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  would  descend  the 
back  side  of  the  ridge  to  the  spring  and  have  the  party 
there.  Crossing  the  hand's  breadth  of  level  ground  she  began 
to  climb  down  the  long  shady  slope  toward  a  stream  that 
trickled  through  a  bit  of  wood  and  a  thicket,  and  a  small, 
ice-cold  spring  in  a  ferny  hollow.  The  sun-bathed  landscape, 
river  and  canal  and  fields  and  red-brick  Gilead  Balm  with  its 
cedars,  and  the  garden  and  orchard,  and  the  overseer's 
house  sank  from  view.  There  was  only  the  broad-leaved 
cucumber  tree  against  the  deep  blue  sky.  The  trunk  of  the 
cucumber  tree  disappeared,  and  then  the  greater  branches, 
and  then  the  lesser  branches  toward  the  top,  and  then  the 
bushy  green  top  itself.  When  Hagar  and  the  other  children 
played  on  the  ridge,  they  followed  her  lead  and  called  this 
side  "  the  far  country."  To  them  —  or  perhaps  only  to  Hagar 
—  it  had  a  clime,  an  atmosphere  quite  different  from  the 
homeward-facing  side. 

When  she  came  to  the  spring  at  the  foot  of  the  ridge  she  was 
very  thirsty.  She  knelt  on  a  great  sunken  rock,  and,  taking 
off  her  sunbonnet,  leaned  forward  between  the  fern  and  mint, 
made  a  cup  of  her  hands  and  drank  the  sparkling  water.  When 
she  had  had  all  she  wished,  she  settled  back  and  regarded 
the  green,  flowering  thicket.  It  came  close  to  the  spring,  fill 
ing  the  space  between  the  water  and  the  wood,  and  it  was  a 


38  HAGAR 

wild,  luxuriant  tangle.  Hagar's  fancy  began  to  play  with  it. 
Now  it  was  a  fairy  wood  for  Thumbelina  —  now  Titania  and 
Oberon  danced  there  in  the  moonlight  —  now  her  mind  gave 
it  height  and  hugeness,  and  it  was  the  wood  around  the 
Sleeping  Beauty.  The  light-winged  minutes  went  by  and 
then  she  remembered  the  apple  turnovers.  .  .  .  Here  was  the 
slab  of  rock  for  the  table.  She  spread  the  turkey-red  nap 
kin  for  cloth,  and  she  laid  blackberry  leaves  for  plates,  and 
put  the  apple  turnovers  grandly  in  the  middle.  Then  she 
moved  about  the  hollow  and  gathered  her  guests.  Wild  rose, 
ox-eye  daisy,  Black-eyed  Susan,  elder,  white  clover,  and 
columbine  —  quite  a  good  party.  .  .  .  She  set  each  with  due 
ceremony  on  the  flat  rock,  before  a  blackberry-leaf  plate, 
and  then  she  took  her  own  place  facing  the  thicket,  and  after 
a  polite  little  pause,  folded  her  hands  and  closed  her  eyes. 
"We  will  say,"  she  said,  "a  silent  Grace." 

When  she  opened  her  eyes,  she  opened  them  full  upon  other 
eyes  —  haggard,  wolfishly  hungry  eyes,  looking  at  her  from 
out  the  thicket,  behind  them  a  body  striped  like  a  wasp.  .  .  . 

"I  did  n't  mean  to  scare  you,"  said  the  boy,  "but  if  you 
ever  went  most  of  two  days  and  a  night  without  anything  to 
eat,  you'd  know  how  it  felt." 

"  I  never  did,"  said  Hagar.  "  But  I  can  imagine  it.  I  wish  I 
had  asked  Mrs.  Green  for  five  apple  turnovers."  As  she  spoke, 
she  pushed  the  red  fringed  napkin  with  the  second  turnover 
toward  him.  "Eat  that  one,  too.  I  truly  don't  want  any,  and 
the  flowers  are  never  hungry." 

He  bit  into  the  second  turnover.  "  It  seems  mean  to  eat  up 
your  tea-party,  but  I'm  'most  dead,  and  that's  the  truth  — " 

Hagar,  sitting  on  the  great  stone  with  her  hands  folded  im 


THE   CONVICT  39 

her  lap  and  her  sunbonnet  back  on  her  shoulders,  watched  her 
suddenly  acquired  guest.  He  would  not  come  clear  out  of  the 
thicket;  the  tangled  growth  held  him  all  but  head  and  shoul 
ders.  "I  believe  I've  seen  you  before,"  she  said  at  last. 
"About  two  weeks  ago  grandfather  and  Aunt  Serena  and  I 
were  on  the  packet-boat.  Were  n't  you  at  the  lock  up  the 
river?  The  boat  went  down  and  down  until  you  were  stand 
ing  'way  up,  just  against  the  sky.  I  am  almost  sure  it  was 
you." 

He  reddened.  "Yes,  it  was  me."  Then,  dropping  the  arm 
that  held  the  yet  uneaten  bit  of  turnover,  he  broke  out.  "I 
didn't  run  away  while  I  was  a  trusty!  I  wouldn't  have 
done  it!  One  of  the  men  lied  about  me  and  said  dirty  words 
about  my  people,  and  I  jumped  on  him  and  knocked  his  head 
against  a  stone  until  he  did  n't  come  to  for  half  an  hour! 
Then  they  did  things  to  me,  and  did  what  they  called  degrad 
ing  me.  'No  more  trustying  for  you!'  said  the  boss.  So  I 
run  away  —  three  days  ago."  He  wiped  his  forehead  with 
his  sleeve.  "  It  seems  more  like  three  years.  I  reckon  they  Ve 
got  the  dogs  out." 

"What  have  they  got  the  dogs  out  for?" 

"Why,  to  hunt  me.   I  — I—" 

His  voice  sunk.  Terror  came  back,  and  will-breaking  fear, 
a  chill  nausea  and  swooning  of  the  soul.  He  groaned  and  half 
rose  from  the  thicket.  "I  was  lying  here  till  night,  but  I 
reckon  I'd  better  be  going — "  His  eyes  fell  upon  his  body 
and  he  sank  back.  "O  God!  I  reckon  in  hell  we  '11  wear  these 
clothes." 

Hagar  stared  at  him,  faint  reflecting  lines  of  anxiety  and 
unhappiness  on  her  brow,  quiverings  about  her  lips.  "Ought 


40  HAGAR 

you  to  have  run  away?  Was  it  right  to  run  away?"  The 
colour  flooded  her  face.  It  was  always  hard  for  her  to  tell  of 
her  errors,  but  she  felt  that  she  and  the  boy  were  in  some 
what  the  same  case,  and  that  she  ought  to  do  it.  "I  did 
something  my  aunt  had  told  me  not  to  do.  It  was  reading  a 
book  that  she  said  was  wicked.  I  can't  see  yet  that  it  was 
wicked.  It  was  very  interesting.  But  the  Bishop  said  that 
he  did  n't  christen  me  for  that,  and  that  it  was  a  sin.  And 
now,  for  a  whole  week,  grandmother  says  that  I'm  not  to  read 
any  book  at  all  —  which  is  very  hard.  What  I  mean  is,"  said 
Hagar,  "  though  I  don't  feel  yet  that  there  was  anything 
wicked  in  that  book  (I  did  n't  read  much  of  it),  I  feel  per 
fectly  certain  that  I  ought  to  obey  grandmother.  The  Bible 
tells  you  so,  and  I  believe  in  the  Bible."  Her  brow  puckered 
again.  "At  least,  I  believe  that  I  believe  in  the  Bible.  And  if 
there  was  n't  anybody  in  the  house,  and  the  most  interesting 
books  were  lying  around,  I  would  n't  —  at  least  I  think  I 
would  n't  —  touch  one  till  the  week  is  over."  She  tried  earn 
estly  to  explain  her  position.  "I  mean  that  if  I  really  did 
wrong  —  and  I  reckon  I  '11  have  to  say  that  I  ought  n't  to 
have  disobeyed  Aunt  Serena,  though  the  Bible  does  n't  say 
anything  about  aunts  —  I  '11  take  the  hard  things  that  come 
after.  Of  course"  —  she  ended  politely  —  "your  folks  may 
have  been  mistaken,  and  you  may  not  have  done  anything 
wrong  at  all — " 

The  boy  bloomed  at  her.  "I  '11  tell  you  what  I  did.  I  live 
'way  out  in  the  mountains,  the  other  end  of  nowhere.  Well, 
Christmas  there  was  a  dance  in  the  Cove,  and  I  went,  but 
Nancy  Horn,  that  had  promised  to  go  with  me,  broke  her 
word  and  went  with  Dave  Windless.  There  was  a  lot  of  apple 


THE   CONVICT  41 

jack  around,  and  I  took  more'n  I  usually  take.  And  then, 
when  we  were  dancing  the  reel,  somebody  —  and  I'll  swear 
still  it  was  Dave,  though  he  swore  in  the  court-room  it 
was  n't  —  Dave  Windless  put  out  his  foot  and  tripped  me 
up!  Well,  Nancy,  she  laughed.  ...  I  don't  remember  any 
thing  clear  after  that,  and  I  thought  that  the  man  who  was 
shooting  up  the  room  was  some  other  person,  though  I  did 
think  it  was  funny  the  pistol  was  in  my  hand.  .  .  .  Anyhow, 
Dave  got  a  ball  through  his  hip,  and  old  Daddy  Jake  Willy, 
that  I  was  awful  fond  of  and  would  n't  have  hurt  not  for  a 
still  of  my  own  and  the  best  horse  on  the  mountain,  he  got 
his  bow  arm  broken,  and  one  of  the  women  was  frightened 
into  fits,  and  next  week  when  her  baby  was  born  and  had  a 
harelip  she  said  I  'd  done  it.  ...  Anyhow  the  sheriff  came  and 
took  me  —  it  was  about  dawn,  'way  up  on  the  mountain-side, 
and  I  still  thought  it  was  another  man  going  away  toward 
Catamount  Gap  and  the  next  county  where  there  was  n't  any 
Nancy  Horn  —  I  thought  so  clear  till  I  fired  at  the  sheriff 
and  broke  his  elbow  and  the  deputy  came  up  behind  and 
twisted  the  pistol  away,  and  somebody  else  threw  a  gourd  of 
water  from  the  spring  over  me.  .  .  and  I  come  to  and  found 
it  had  been  me  all  the  time.  .  .  .  That's  what  I  did,  and  I  got 
four  years." 

" Four  years  ? "  said  Hagar.  " Four  years  in  —  in  jail ? " 
"In  the  penitentiary,"  said  the  boy.  "It's  a  worse  word 
than  jail.  ...  I  know  what's  right  and  wrong.  Liquor's 
wrong,  and  the  Judge  said  carrying  concealed  weapons  was 
wrong,  and  I  reckon  it  is,  though  there  is  n't  much  conceal 
ment  when  everybody  knows  you  're  wearing  them.  .  .  .  Yes, 
liquor's  wrong,  and  quarrels  might  go  off  just  with  some 


42  HAGAR 

words  and  using  your  fists  if  powder  and  shot  were  n't  right 
under  your  hand,  tempting  you.  Yes,  drinking 's  wrong  and 
quarreling 's  wrong,  and  after  I  come  to  my  senses  it  did  n't 
need  no  preacher  like  those  that  come  round  Sundays  to  tell 
me  that.  But  I  tell  you  what's  the  whole  floor  space  of  hell 
wronger  than  most  of  the  things  men  do  and  that's  the 
place  the  lawyers  and  the  judges  and  the  juries  send  men  to!" 

"Do  you  mean  that  they  ought  n't  to  —  to  do  anything  to 
you?  You  did  do  wrong." 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that,"  said  the  boy.  "I've  got  good 
sense.  If  I  did  n't  see  it  at  first,  old  Daddy  Jake  Willy  came 
to  the  county  jail  three  or  four  times,  and  he  made  me  see  it. 
The  Judge  and  the  lawyer  could  n't  ha'  made  me  see  it,  but 
he  did.  And  at  last  I  was  willing  to  go."  His  face  worked. 
"The  day  before  I  was  to  go  I  was  in  that  cell  I'd  stayed  in 
then  two  months  and  I  looked  right  out  into  the  sunshine. 
You  could  see  Old  Rocky  Knob  between  two  bars,  and  Bear's 
Den  between  two,  and  Lonely  River  running  down  into  the 
valley  between  the  other  two,  and  the  sun  shining  over  every 
thing —  shining  just  like  it's  shining  to-day.  Well,  I  stood 
there,  looking  out,  and  made  a  good  resolution.  I  was  going 
to  take  what  was  coming  to  me  because  I  deserved  it,  having 
broken  the  peace  and  lamed  men  and  hurt  a  woman,  and 
broken  Daddy  Jake's  arm  and  fired  at  the  sheriff.  I  had  n't 
meant  to  do  all  that,  but  still  I  had  done  it.  So  I  said,  'I'll 
take  it.  And  I  won't  give  any  trouble.  And  I'll  keep  the 
rules.  If  it's  a  place  to  make  men  better  in,  I'll  come  out  a 
better  man.  I'll  work  just  as  hard  as  any  man,  and  if  there's 
books  to  study  I'll  study,  and  I'll  keep  the  rules  and  try  to 
help  other  people,  and  when  I  come  out,  I'll  be  young  still 


THE   CONVICT 


43 


and  a  better  man." '  He  rose  to  his  full  height  in  the  thicket, 
the  upper  half  of  his  striped  body  showing  like  a  swimmer's 
above  the  matted  green.  He  sent  out  his  young  arms  in  a 
wide  gesture  at  once  mocking  and  despairing,  but  whether 
addressed  to  earth  or  heaven  was  not  apparent.  "You  see, 
I  did  n't  know  any  more  about  that  place  than  a  baby 
unborn!" 

With  that  he  dropped  like  a  stone  back  into  the  thicket  and 
lay  dumb  and  close,  with  agonized  eyes.  Around  the  base  of 
the  ridge  out  of  the  wood  came  the  dogs ;  behind  them  three 
men  with  guns. 

.  .  .  One  of  the  men  was  a  jolly,  fatherly  kind  of  person. 
He  tried  to  explain  to  Hagar  that  they  were  n't  really  going 
to  hurt  the  convict  at  all  —  she  saw  for  herself  that  the  dogs 
had  n't  hurt  him,  not  a  mite!  The  handcuffs  did  n't  hurt 
him  either  —  they  were  loose  and  comfortable.  No;  they 
were  n't  going  to  do  anything  to  him,  they  were  just  going  to 
take  him  back.  — He  had  n't  hurt  her,  had  he?  had  n't  said 
anything  disagreeable  to  her  or  done  anything  but  eat  up  her 
tea-party?  —  Then  that  was  all  right,  and  the  fatherly  person 
would  go  himself  with  her  to  the  house  and  tell  the  Colonel 
about  it.  Of  course  he  knew  the  Colonel,  everybody  knew 
the  Colonel!  And  "Stop  crying,  little  lady!  That  boy  ain't 
worth  it." 

The  Colonel's  dictum  was  that  the  country  was  getting  so 
damned  unsettled  that  Hagar  must  not  again  be  let  to  play 
on  the  ridge  alone. 

Old  Miss,  who  had  had  that  morning  a  somewhat  longish 
talk  with  Dr.  Bude,  stated  that  she  would  tell  Mary  Green 
to  send  for  Thomasine  and  Maggie  and  Corker.  "Dr.  Bude 


44 


HAGAR 


thinks  the  child  broods  too  much,  and  it  may  be  better  to 
have  healthy  diversion  for  her  in  case — " 

"In  case — !"  exclaimed  Miss  Serena.  "Does  he  really 
think,  mother,  that  it's  serious?" 

"I  don't  think  he  knows,"  answered  her  mother.  "I 
don't  think  it  is,  myself.  But  Maria  was  never  like  anybody 
else—" 

"Dear  Maria!"  said  Mrs.  LeGrand.  "She  should  have 
made  such  a  brilliant,  lovely  woman!  If  only  there  was  a 
little  more  compliance,  more  feminine  sweetness,  more  —  if 
I  may  say  so  —  unselfishness  — " 

"Where,"  asked  the  Bishop,  "is  Medway?" 

Mrs.  Ashendyne's  needles  clicked.  "My  son  was  in  Spain, 
the  last  we  heard:  studying  the  painter  Murillo." 


CHAPTER  V 

MARIA 

THOMASINE  and  Maggie  and  Corker  arrived  and  filled  the 
overseer's  house  with  noise.  They  were  a  blatantly  healthful, 
boisterous  set,  only  Thomasine  showing  gleams  of  quiet. 
They  wanted  at  once  to  play  on  the  ridge,  but  now  Hagar 
would  n't  play  on  the  ridge.  She  said  she  did  n't  like  it  any 
more.  As  she  spoke,  her  thin  shoulders  drew  together,  and 
her  eyes  also,  and  two  vertical  lines  appeared  between  these. 
"What  you  shakin'  for?"  asked  Corker.  "Got  a  chill?" 

So  they  played  down  by  the  branch  where  the  willows 
grew,  or  in  the  old,  disused  tobacco-house,  or  in  the  orchard, 
or  about  a  haystack  on  a  hillside.  Corker  wanted  always  to 
play  robbers  or  going  to  sea.  Maggie  liked  to  jump  from  the 
haystack  or  to  swing,  swing,  swing,  holding  to  the  long,  pen 
dant  green  withes  of  the  weeping  willow,  or  to  climb  the  apple 
trees.  Thomasine  liked  to  make  dams  across  the  streamlet 
below  the  tobacco-house.  She  liked  to  shape  wet  clay,  and 
she  saved  every  pebble  or  bit  of  bright  china,  or  broken  blue 
or  green  glass  with  which  to  decorate  a  small  grotto  they 
were  making.  She  also  liked  to  play  ring-around-a-rosy,  and 
to  hunt  for  four-leaved  clovers.  Hagar  liked  to  play  going  to 
sea,  but  she  did  not  care  for  robbers.  She  liked  to  swing  from 
the  willows  and  to  climb  a  particular  apple  tree  which  she 
loved,  but  she  did  not  want  to  jump  from  the  haystack,  nor  to 
climb  all  trees.  She  liked  almost  everything  that  Thomasine 


46  HAGAR 

liked,  but  she  was  not  so  terribly  fond  of  ring-around-a- 
rosy.  In  her  own  likings  she  found  herself  somewhat  lonely. 
None  of  the  three,  though  Thomasine  more  than  the  others, 
cared  much  for  a  book.  They  would  rather  have  a  sugar-cake 
any  day.  When  it  came  to  lying  on  the  hillside  without  speak 
ing  and  watching  the  clouds  and  the  tree-tops,  they  did  not 
care  for  that  at  all.  However,  when  they  were  tired,  and 
everything  else  failed,  they  did  like  Hagar  to  tell  them  a 
story.  "Aladdin"  they  liked  —  sitting  in  the  shadow  of  the 
haystack,  their  chins  on  their  hands,  Thomasine's  eyes  still 
unconsciously  alert  for  four-leaved  clovers,  Corker  with  a 
June  apple,  trying  to  determine  whether  he  would  bite  into 
it  now  or  wait  until  Aladdin's  mother  had  uncovered  the 
jewels  before  the  Sultan.  They  liked  "Aladdin"  and  "Queen 
Gulnare  and  Prince  Beder"  and  "Snow  White  and  Rose 
Red." 

And  then  came  the  day  that  they  went  after  raspberries. 
That  morning  Hagar,  turning  the  doorknob  of  her  mother's 
room,  found  the  door  softly  opened  from  within  and  Phoebe 
on  the  threshold.  Phoebe  came  out,  closing  the  door  gently 
behind  her,  beckoned  to  Hagar,  and  the  two  crossed  the  hall 
to  the  deep  window.  "I  would  n't  go  in  this  mahnin'  ef  I 
were  you,  honey,"  said  Phoebe.  "Miss  Maria  done  hab  a  bad 
night.  She  could  n't  sleep  an'  her  heart  mos'  give  out.  Oh, 
hit's  all  right  now,  an'  she's  been  lyin'  still  an'  peaceful 
since  de  dawn  come  up.  But  we  wants  her  to  sleep  an'  we 
don'  want  her  to  talk.  An'  Old  Miss  thinks  an'  Phoebe  thinks 
too,  honey,  dat  you'd  better  not  go  in  this  mahnin'.  Nex' 
time  Old  Miss  '11  let  you  stay  twice  as  long  to  make  up 
for  it." 


MARIA  47 

Hagar  looked  at  her  large-eyed,  "Is  my  mother  going  to 
die,  Aunt  Phoebe?" 

But  old  Phoebe  put  her  arms  around  her  and  the  wrinkles 
came  out  all  over  her  brown  face  as  they  did  when  she  laughed. 
Phoebe  was  a  good  woman,  wise  and  old  and  tender  and  a 
strong  liar.  "  Law,  no,  chile  —  What  put  dat  notion  in  yo'  po' 
little  haid?  No,  indeedy!  We  gwine  pull  Miss  Maria  through, 
jes'  as  easy!  Dr.  Bude  he  say  he  gwine  do  hit,  and  what  Dr. 
Bude  say  goes  for  sho!  Phoebe  done  see  him  raise  de  mos' 
dead.  Law,  no,  don'  you  worry  'bout  Miss  Maria!  An'  de 
nex'  time  you  goes  in  de  room,  you  kin  stay  jes'  ez  long  ez 
you  like.  You  kin  sit  by  her  er  whole  hour  an'  won't  nobody 
say  you  nay." 

Downstairs  Captain  Bob  was  sitting  on  the  sunny  step  of 
the  sunny  back  porch,  getting  a  thorn  out  of  Luna's  paw. 
"Hi,  Gipsy,"  he  said,  when  Hagar  came  and  stood  by  him; 
"what's  the  matter  with  breakfast  this  morning?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Hagar.  "I  haven't  seen  grand 
mother  to-day.  Uncle  Bob  — " 

"Well,  chicken?" 

"They'd  tell  you,  would  n't  they,  if  my  mother  was  going 
to  die?" 

Captain  Bob,  having  relieved  Luna  of  the  thorn,  gave  his 
attention  fully  to  his  great-niece.  He  was  slow  and  kindly 
and  unexacting  and  incurious  and  unimaginative,  and  the 
unusual  never  occurred  to  him  before  it  happened.  "Maria 
going  to  die?  That's  damned  nonsense,  partridge!  Have  n't 
heard  a  breath  of  it  —  is  n't  anything  to  hear.  Nobody  dies 
at  Gilead  Balm  —  has  n't  been  a  death  here  since  the  War. 
Besides,  Medway  's  away.  —  Must  n't  get  notions  in  your 


48  HAGAR 

head  —  makes  you  unhappy,  and  things  go  on  just  the 
same  as  ever."  He  pulled  her  down  on  the  step  beside  him. 
"Look  at  Luna,  now!  She  ain't  notionate  —  are  you, 
Luna  ?  Luna  and  I  are  going  over  the  hills  this  morning  to 
find  Old  Miss's  guineas  for  her.  Don't  you  want  to  go 
along?" 

"I  don't  believe  I  do,  thank  you,  Uncle  Bob." 

Mrs.  LeGrand  came  out  upon  the  porch,  fresh  and  charm 
ing  in  a  figured  dimity  with  a  blue  ribbon.  "Mrs.  Ashendyne 
and  Serena  are  talking  to  Dr.  Bude,  and  as  you  men  must  be 
famished,  Captain  Bob,  I  am  going  to  ring  for  breakfast  and 
pour  out  your  coffee  for  you  — " 

In  the  hall  Hagar  appealed  to  her.  "Mrs.  LeGrand,  can't 
I  go  into  grandmother's  room  and  hear  what  Dr.  Bude  says 
about  my  mother  ? "  But  Mrs.  LeGrand  smiled  and  shook  her 
head  and  laid  hands  on  her.  "No,  indeed,  dear  child!  Your 
mother's  all  right.  You  come  with  me,  and  have  your  break 
fast." 

The  Bishop  appearing  at  the  stair  foot,  she  turned  to  greet 
him.  Hagar,  slipping  from  her  touch,  stole  down  the  hall  to 
Old  Miss's  chamber  and  tried  the  door.  It  gave  and  let  her 
in.  Old  Miss  was  seated  in  the  big  chair,  Dr.  Bude  and  the 
Colonel  were  standing  on  either  side  of  the  hearth,  and  Miss 
Serena  was  between  them  and  the  door. 

"Hagar!"  exclaimed  Miss  Serena.  "Don't  come  in  now, 
dear.  Grandmother  and  I  will  be  out  to  breakfast  in  a 


moment." 


But  Hagar  had  the  courage  of  unhappiness  and  groping  and 
fear  for  the  most  loved.  She  fled  straight  to  Dr.  Bude.  "Dr. 
Bude  —  oh,  Dr.  Bude  —  is  my  mother  going  to  die?" 


MARIA  49 

"No,  Bude,"  said  the  Colonel  from  the  other  side  of  the 
hearth. 

Dr.  Bude,  an  able  country  doctor,  loved  and  honoured, 
devoted  and  fatherly  and  wise,  made  a  "Tchk!"  with  his 
tongue  against  the  roof  of  his  mouth. 

Old  Miss,  leaving  the  big  chair,  came  and  took  Hagar  and 
drew  her  back  with  her  into  the  deep  chintz  hollows.  No  one 
might  doubt  that  Old  Miss  loved  her  granddaughter.  Now 
her  clasp  was  as  stately  as  ever,  but  her  voice  was  quite  gen 
tle,  though  of  course  authoritative  —  else  it  could  not  have 
belonged  to  Old  Miss.  "Your  mother  had  a  bad  night,  dear, 
and  so,  to  make  her  quiet  and  comfortable,  we  sent  early  for 
Dr.  Bude.  She  is  going  to  sleep  now,  and  to-morrow  you  shall 
go  in  and  see  her.  But  you  can  only  go  if  you  are  a  good,  obe 
dient  child.  Yes,  I  am  telling  you  the  truth.  I  think  Maria  will 
get  well.  I  have  never  thought  anything  else.  —  Now,  run 
away  and  get  your  breakfast,  and  to-day  you  and  Thomasine 
and  Maggie  and  Corker  shall  go  raspberrying." 

Dr.  Bude  spoke  from  the  braided  rug.  "No  one  knows, 
Hagar,  what's  going  to  happen  in  this  old  world,  do  they? 
But  Nature  has  a  way  of  taking  care  of  people  quite  regard 
less  and  without  waiting  to  consult  the  doctors.  I've 
watched  Nature  right  closely,  and  I  never  give  up  any 
thing.  Your  mother's  right  ill,  my  dear,  but  so  have  a  lot 
of  other  people  been  right  ill  and  gotten  well.  You  go  pick 
your  raspberries,  and  maybe  to-morrow  you  can  see  her  — " 

"Can't  I  see  her  to-night?" 

"Well,  maybe  —  maybe — "  said  the  doctor. 

The  raspberry  patches  were  almost  two  miles  away,  past  a 
number  of  shaggy  hills  and  dales.  A  wood  road  led  that  way, 


50  HAGAR 

and  Hagar  and  Thomasine  and  Maggie  and  Corker,  with 
Jinnie,  a  coloured  woman,  to  take  care  of  them,  felt  the  damp 
leaf  mould  under  their  feet.  A  breeze,  coming  through  oak 
and  pine,  tossed  their  hair  and  fluttered  the  girls'  skirts  and 
the  broad  collar  of  Corker's  voluminous  shirt.  The  sky  was 
bright  blue,  with  two  or  three  large  clouds  like  sailing  vessels 
with  all  sail  on.  A  cat-bird  sang  to  split  its  throat.  They  saw 
a  black  snake,  and  a  rabbit  showed  a  white  tip  of  tail,  and  a 
lightning-blasted  pine  with  a  large  empty  bird-nest  in  the 
topmost  crotch,  ineffably  lonely  and  deserted  against  the 
deep  sky,  engaged  their  attention.  They  had  various  adven 
tures.  Each  of  the  children  carried  a  tin  bucket  for  berries, 
and  Jinnie  carried  a  white-oak  split  basket  with  dinner  in  it 
—  sandwiches  and  rusks  and  a  jar  with  milk  and  snowball 
cakes.  They  were  going  to  stay  all  day.  That  was  what  usu 
ally  they  loved.  It  was  so  adventurous. 

Corker  strode  along  whistling.  Maggie  whistled,  too,  as 
well  as  a  boy,  though  he  looked  disdain  at  her  and  said, 
"Huh!  Girls  can't  whistle!" 

"Dar's  a  piece  of  poetry  I  done  heard,"  said  Jinnie,  — 

' '  Er  whistlin'  woman  an*  er  crowin'  hen, 
Dey  am*  gwine  come  ter  no  good  end.' " 

Thomasine  hummed  as  she  walked.  She  had  filled  her 
bucket  with  various  matters  as  she  went  along,  and  now  she 
was  engaged  in  fashioning  out  of  the  green  burrs  of  the  bur 
dock  a  basket  with  an  elaborate  handle.  "Don't  you  want 
some  burrs?"  she  asked  Hagar,  walking  beside  her.  Thom 
asine  was  always  considerate  and  would  give  away  almost 
anything  she  had. 


MARIA  51 

Hagar  took  the  burrs  and  began  also  to  make  a  basket. 
She  was  being  good.  And,  indeed,  as  the  moments  passed, 
the  heavy,  painful  feeling  about  her  heart  went  away.  The 
doctor  had  said  and  grandmother  had  said,  and  Uncle  Bob 
and  Phoebe  and  every  one  .  .  .  The  raspberries.  She  in 
stantly  visualized  one  of  the  blue  willow  saucers  filled  with 
raspberries,  carried  in  by  herself  to  her  mother,  at  supper- 
time.  Yarrow  was  in  bloom  and  Black-eyed  Susans  and  the 
tall  white  Jerusalem  candles.  Coming  back  she  would  gather 
a  big  bouquet  for  the  grey  jar  on  her  mother's  table.  She 
grew  light-hearted.  A  bronze  butterfly  fluttered  before  her, 
the  heavy  odour  of  the  pine  filled  her  nostrils,  the  sky  was  so 
blue,  the  air  so  sweet  —  there  was  a  pearly  cloud  like  a  cas 
tle  and  another  like  a  little  boat  —  a  little  boat.  Off  went 
her  fancy,  lizard-quick,  feather-light. 

"  Swing  low,  sweet  chariot  —  " 

sang  Jinnie  as  she  walked. 

The  raspberry  patches  were  in  sunny  hollows.  There  was 
a  span-wide  stream,  running  pure  over  a  gravel  bed,  and  a 
grazed-over  hillside,  green  and  short-piled  as  velvet,  and  deep 
woods  closing  in,  shutting  out.  Summer  sunshine  bathed 
every  grass  blade  and  berry  leaf,  summer  winds  cooled  the 
air,  bees  and  grasshoppers  and  birds,  squirrels  in  the  woods, 
rippling  water,  wind  in  the  leaves  made  summer  sounds.  It 
was  a  happy  day.  Sometimes  Hagar,  Thomasine,  Maggie, 
Corker,  and  Jinnie  picked  purply-red  berries  from  the  same 
bush;  sometimes  they  scattered  and  combined  in  twos  and 
threes.  Sometimes  each  established  a  corner  and  picked  in  an 
elfin  solitude.  Sometimes  they  conversed  or  bubbled  over 


52  HAGAR 

with  laughter,  sometimes  they  kept  a  serious  silence.  It  was 
a  matter  of  rivalry  as  to  whose  bucket  should  first  be  filled. 
Hagar  strayed  off  at  last  to  an  angle  of  an  old  rail  fence.  The 
berries,  as  she  found,  were  very  fine  here.  She  called  the  news 
to  the  others,  but  they  said  they  had  fine  bushes,  too,  and  so 
she  picked  on  with  a  world  of  her  own  about  her.  The  June- 
bugs  droned  and  droned,  her  fingers  moved  slower  and  slower. 
At  last  she  stopped  picking,  and,  lying  down  on  a  sunken 
rock  by  the  fence,  fell  to  dreaming.  Her  dreams  were  al 
ready  shot  with  thought,  and  she  was  apt,  when  she  seemed 
most  idle,  to  be  silently,  inwardly  growing.  Now  she  was 
thinking  about  Heaven  and  about  God.  She  was  a  great  com- 
mitter  of  poetry  to  memory,  and  now,  while  she  lay  filtering 
sand  through  her  hands  as  through  an  hourglass,  she  said 
over  a  stanza  hard  to  learn,  which  yet  she  had  learned  some 
days  ago. 

"  Trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 
From  God,  who  is  our  home — " 

When  she  had  repeated  it  dreamily,  in  an  inward  whisper,  the 
problem  of  why,  in  that  case,  she  was  so  far  from  home  en 
gaged  her  attention.  The  "here"  and  the  "there — "  God 
away,  away  off  on  a  throne  with  angels,  and  Hagar  Ashen- 
dyne,  in  a  blue  sunbonnet  here  by  a  Virginia  rail  fence,  with 
raspberry  stain  on  her  hands.  Home  was  where  you  lived. 
God  was  everywhere;  then,  was  God  right  here,  too?  But 
Hagar  Ashendyne  could  n't  see  the  throne  and  the  gold  steps 
and  floor  and  the  angels.  She  could  make  a  picture  of  them, 
just  as  she  could  of  Solomon's  throne,  or  Pharaoh's  throne,  or 
Queen  Victoria's  throne,  but  the  picture  did  n't  stir  anything 
at  her  heart.  She  was  n't  homesick  for  the  court.  She  was 


MARIA  53 

homesick  to  be  a  good  woman  when  she  grew  up,  and  to  learn 
all  the  time  and  to  know  beautiful  things,  but  she  was  n't 
homesick  for  Heaven  where  God  lived.  Then  was  she  wicked? 
Hagar  wondered  and  wondered.  The  yellow  sand  dropped 
from  between  her  palms.  .  .  .  God  in  the  sand,  God  in  me, 
God  here  and  now.  .  .  .  Then  God  also  is  trying  to  grow 
more  God.  .  .  .  Hagar  drew  a  great  sigh,  and  for  the  mo 
ment  gave  it  up. 

Before  her  on  the  grey  rail  was  a  slender,  burnished  insect, 
all  gold-and-green  armour.  Around  the  lock  of  the  fence 
came,  like  a  gold-and-green  moving  stiletto,  a  lizard  which 
took  and  devoured  the  gold-and-green  insect.  .  .  .  God  in 
the  lizard,  God  in  the  insect,  God  devouring  God,  making 
Himself  feed  Himself,  growing  so.  ...  The  sun  suddenly  left 
the  grass  and  the  raspberry  bushes.  A  cloud  had  hidden  it. 
Other  cloud  masses,  here  pearly  white,  here  somewhat  dark, 
were  boiling  up  from  the  horizon. 

Jinnie  called  the  children  together.  "What  we  gwine  do? 
Look  like  er  storm.  Reckon  we  better  light  out  fer  home!" 

Protests  arose.  "Ho!"  cried  Corker,  "it  ain't  going  to  be  a 
storm.  I  have  n't  got  my  bucket  more'n  half  full  and  we 
have  n't  had  a  picnic  neither!  Let's  stay!" 

"Let's  stay,"  echoed  Maggie.  "Who's  afraid  of  a  little  bit 
of  storm  anyhow?" 

"  It's  lots  better  for  it  to  catch  us  here  in  the  open,"  argued 
Thomasine.  "They're  all  tall  trees  in  the  wood.  But  7  think 
the  clouds  are  getting  smaller  —  there's  the  sun  again!" 

The  sunshine  fell,  strong  and  golden.  "We's  gwine  stay 
den,"  said  Jinnie.  "But  ef  hit  rains  an'  you  all  gets  wet  an' 
teks  cold,  I's  gwine  tell  Old  Miss  I  jus'  could  n't  mek  you 


54  HAGAR 

come  erway!  —  Dar's  de  old  cow-house  at  de  end  of  de  field. 
I  reckon  we  kin  refugee  dar  ef  de  worst  comes  to  de  worst." 

While  they  were  eating  the  snowball  cakes,  a  large  cloud 
came  up  and  determinedly  covered  the  sun.  By  the  time 
they  had  eaten  the  last  crumb,  lightnings  were  playing. 
"Dar  now,  I  done  toP  you!"  cried  Jinnie.  "I  never  see  such 
children  anyhow!  Old  Miss  an'  Mrs.  Green  jus'  ought-ter 
whip  you  all!  Now  you  gwine  git  soppin'  wet  an'  maybe  de 
lightning '11  strike  you,  too!" 

"No,  it  won't!"  cried  Corker.  "The  cow-house's  my  castle, 
an'  we've  been  robbing  a  freight  train  an'  the  constable  an' 
old  Captain  Towney  and  the  army  are  after  us  —  I  'm  going 
to  get  to  the  cow-house  first!" 

Maggie  scrambled  to  her  feet.  "No,  you  ain't!  I'm  going 
to—" 

The  cow-house  was  dark  and  somewhat  dirty,  but  they 
found  a  tolerable  square  yard  or  two  of  earthen  floor  and 
they  all  sat  close  together  for  warmth  —  the  air  having 
grown  quite  cold  —  and  for  company,  a  thunderstorm, 
after  all,  being  a  thing  that  made  even  train  robbers  and 
castled  barons  feel  rather  small  and  helpless.  For  an  hour 
lightnings  flashed  and  thunders  rolled  and  the  rain  fell  in 
leaden  lines.  Then  the  lightnings  grew  less  frequent  and 
vivid,  and  the  thunder  travelled  farther  away,  but  the  rain 
still  fell.  "Oh,  it's  so  stupid  and  dark  in  here!"  said  Corker. 
"Let's  tell  stories.  Hagar,  you  tell  a  story,  and  Jinnie,  you 
tell  a  story!" 

Hagar  told  about  the  Snow  Queen  and  Kay  and  Gerda,  and 
they  liked  that  very  well.  All  the  cow-house  was  dark  as  the 
little  robber  girl's  hut  in  the  night-time  when  all  were  asleep 


MARIA  55 

save  Gerda  and  the  little  robber  girl  and  the  reindeer.  When 
they  came  to  the  reindeer,  Corker  said  he  heard  him  moving 
behind  them  in  a  corner,  and  Maggie  said  she  heard  him,  too, 
and  Jinnie  called  out,  "Whoa,  dere,  Mr.  Reindeer!  You  des 
er  stay  still  till  we's  ready  fer  you!"  —  and  they  all  drew 
closer  together  with  a  shudder  of  delight. 

The  clouds  were  breaking  —  the  lines  of  rain  were  silver 
instead  of  leaden.  Even  the  cow-house  was  lighter  inside. 
There  was  no  reindeer,  after  all;  there  were  only  brown  logs 
and  trampled  earth  and  mud-daubers'  nests  and  a  big  spider's 
web.  "Now,  Jinnie,"  said  Corker,  "you  tell  a  ghost  story." 

Thomasine  objected.  "I  don't  like  ghost  stories.  Hagar 
does  n't  either." 

"I  don't  mind  them  much,"  said  Hagar.  "I  don't  have  to 
believe  them." 

But  Jinnie  chose  to  become  indignant.  "You  jes'  hab  to 
believe  dem.  Dey're  true!  My  Ian'!  Coin'  ter  church  an' 
readin'  de  Bible  an'  den  doubtin'  erbout  ghosts!  I'se  gwine 
tell  you  er  story  you 's  got  ter  believe,  'cause  hit's  done  hap 
pen!  Hit's  gwine  ter  scare  you,  too!  Dey  tell  me  hit  scare 
a  young  girl  down  in  de  Hollow  inter  fits.  Hit's  gwine  ter 
mek  yo'  flesh  crawl.  Sayin'  ghos'  stories  ain't  true,  when 
everybody  knows  dey's  true!" 

The  piece  of  ancient  African  imagination,  traveller  of  ten 
thousand  years  through  heated  forests,  was  fearsome  enough. 
"Ugh!"  said  the  children  and  shivered  and  stared.  —  It  took 
the  sun,  indeed,  to  drive  the  creeping,  mistlike  thoughts 
away. 

Going  home  through  the  rain-soaked  woodland,  Hagar  be 
gan  to  gather  flowers.  Her  bucket  of  berries  on  her  arm, 


56  HAGAR 

she  stepped  aside  for  this  bloom  and  that,  gathering  with 
long  stems,  making  a  sheaf  of  blossoms.  "What  you  doin' 
dat  for?"  queried  Jinnie.  "Dey's  all  wet.  You'll  jes'  ruin 
dat  gingham  dress!"  But  Hagar  kept  on  plucking  Black- 
eyed  Susans,  and  cardinal  flowers,  and  purple  clover  and 
lady's-lace. 

They  came,  in  the  afternoon  glow,  in  sight  of  Gilead  Balm. 
They  came  closer  until  the  house  was  large,  standing  between 
its  dark,  funereal  cedars,  with  a  rosy  cloud  behind. 

"All  the  blinds  are  closed  as  though  we'd  gone  away!" 
said  Hagar.  "I  never  saw  it  that  way  before." 

Mrs.  Green  was  at  the  lower  gate,  waiting  for  them.  Her 
old,  kind,  wrinkled  face  was  pale  between  the  slats  of  her 
sunbonnet,  but  her  eyelids  were  reddened  as  though  she  had 
been  weeping.  "Yes,  yes,  children,  I'm  glad  you  got  a  lot  of 
berries !  —  Corker  and  Maggie  and  Thomasine,  you  go  with 
Jinnie.  Mind  me  and  go.  —  Hagar,  child,  you  and  me  are 
goin'  to  come  on  behind.  .  .  .  You  and  me  are  goin'  to  sit 
here  a  bit  on  the  summer-house  step.  .  .  .  The  Colonel  said 
I  was  the  best  one  after  all  to  do  it,  and  I  'm  going  to  do  it, 
but  I'd  rather  take  a  killing!  .  .  .  Yes,  sit  right  here,  with 
my  arm  about  you.  Hagar,  child,  I've  got  something  to  tell 
you,  honey." 

Hagar  looked  at  her  with  large,  dark  eyes.  "Mrs.  Green, 
why  are  all  the  shutters  closed?" 


CHAPTER  VI 

EGLANTINE 

No  one  could  be  so  cross-grained  as  to  deny  that  Eglantine 
was  a  sweet  place.  It  lay  sweetly  on  just  the  right,  softly 
swelling  hill.  The  old  grey-stucco  main  house  had  a  sweet 
porch,  with  wistaria  growing  sweetly  over  it;  the  long,  added 
grey-stucco  wings  had  pink  and  white  roses  growing  sweetly 
on  trellises  between  the  windows.  There  were  silver  maples 
and  heavily  blooming  locust  trees  and  three  fine  magnolias. 
There  were  thickets  of  weigelia  and  spiraea  and  forsythia,  and 
winding  walks,  and  an  arbour,  and  the  whole  twenty  acres  or 
so  was  enclosed  by  a  thorny,  osage-orange  hedge,  almost, 
though  not  quite  so  high  as  the  hedge  around  the  Sleeping 
Beauty's  palace.  It  was  a  sweet  place.  Everyone  said  so  — 
parents  and  guardians,  the  town  that  neighboured  Eglantine, 
tourists  that  drove  by,  visitors  to  the  Commencement  exer 
cises —  everybody!  The  girls  themselves  said  so.  It  was 
praised  of  all  —  almost  all.  The  place  was  sweet.  M.  Morel, 
the  French  teacher,  who  was  always  improving  his  English, 
and  so  on  the  hunt  for  synonyms,  once  said  in  company  that 
it  was  saccharine. 

Miss  Carlisle,  who  taught  ancient  and  modern  history  and, 
in  the  interstices,  astronomy  and  a  blue-penciled  physiology, 
gently  corrected  him.  "Oh,  M.  Morel!  We  never  use  that 
word  in  this  sense!  If  you  wish  to  vary  the  term  you  might 
use  ' charming,'  or  'refined,'  or  ' elegant.'  Besides"  —  she 


58  HAGAR 

gazed  across  the  lawn  —  "it  is  n't  so  sweet,  I  always  think, 
in  November  as  it  is  in  April  or  May." 

"The  sweetest  time,  I  think,"  said  Miss  Bedford,  who 
taught  mathematics,  geography,  and  Latin,  "is  when  the 
lilac  is  in  bloom." 

"And  when  the  robins  nest  again,"  sighed  a  pensive,  wid 
owed  Mrs.  Lane,  who  taught  the  little  girls. 

"It  is  'refined'  always,"  said  M.  Morel.  "November  or 
April,  what  is  ze  difference?  It  has  ze  atmosphere.  It  is 
sugary." 

"Here,"  remarked  Miss  Gage,  who  taught  philosophy  — 
"here  is  Mrs.  LeGrand." 

All  rose  to  greet  the  mistress  of  Eglantine  as  she  came  out 
from  the  hall  upon  the  broad  porch.  Mrs.  LeGrand's  gra 
ciously  ample  form  was  wrapped  in  black  cashmere  and  black 
lace.  Her  face  was  unwrinkled,  but  her  hair  had  rapidly 
whitened.  It  was  piled  upon  her  head  after  an  agreeable 
fashion  and  crowned  by  a  graceful  small  cap  of  lace.  She  was 
ample  and  creamy  and  refinedly  despotic.  With  her  came 
her  god-daughter,  Sylvie  Maine.  It  was  early  November, 
and  the  sycamores  were  yet  bronze,  the  maples  aflame.  It 
was  late  Friday  afternoon,  and  the  occasion  the  arrival  and 
entertainment  overnight  of  an  English  writer  of  note,  a 
woman  visiting  America  with  a  book  in  mind. 

Mrs.  LeGrand  said  that  she  had  thought  she  heard  the  car 
riage  wheels.  Mr.  Pollock,  the  music-master,  said,  No;  it 
was  the  wind  down  the  avenue.  Mrs.  LeGrand,  pleasantly, 
just  condescending  enough  and  not  too  condescending, 
glanced  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  group.  "M.  Morel  and 
Mr.  Pollock  and  you,  Miss  Carlisle  and  Miss  Bedford,  will, 


EGLANTINE  59 

I  hope,  take  supper  with  our  guest  and  me?  Sylvie,  here,  will 
keep  her  usual  place.  I  can't  do  without  Sylvie.  She  spoils 
me  and  I  spoil  her!  And  we  will  have  besides,  I  think,  the 
girl  that  has  stood  highest  this  month  in  her  classes.  Who 
will  it  be,  Miss  Gage?" 

"Hagar  Ashendyne,  Mrs.  LeGrand." 

Mrs.  LeGrand  had  a  humorous  smile.  "Then,  Sylvie,  see 
that  Hagar's  dress  is  all  right  and  try  to  get  her  to  do  her 
hair  differently.  I  like  Eglantine  girls  to  look  their  birth  and 
place." 

"Dear  Cousin  Olivia,"  said  Sylvie,  who  was  extremely 
pretty,  "for  all  her  plainness,  Hagar's  got  distinction." 

But  Mrs.  LeGrand  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  could  n't 
see  it.  A  little  wind  arising,  all  the  place  became  a  whirl  of 
coloured  leaves.  And  now  the  carriage  wheels  were  surely 
heard. 

Half  an  hour  later  Sylvie  went  up  to  Hagar's  room.  It  was 
what  was  called  the  "tower  room"  —  small  and  high  up  — 
too  small  for  anything  but  a  single  bed  and  one  inmate.  It 
was  n't  a  popular  room  with  the  Eglantine  girls  —  a  room 
without  a  roommate  was  bad  enough,  and  then,  when  it  was 
upon  another  floor,  quite  away  from  every  one — !  Language 
failed.  But  Hagar  Ashendyne  liked  it,  and  it  had  been  hers 
for  three  years.  She  had  been  at  Eglantine  for  three  years, 
going  home  to  Gilead  Balm  each  summer.  She  was  eighteen 
—  old  for  her  age,  and  young  for  her  age. 

Sylvie  found  her  curled  in  the  window-seat,  and  spoke 
twice  before  she  made  her  hear.  "Hagar!  come  back  to 
earth!" 

Hagar  unfolded  her  long  limbs  and  pushed  her  hair  away 


60  HAGAR 

from  her  eyes.  "I  was  travelling,"  she  said.  "I  was  crossing 
the  Desert  of  Sahara  with  a  caravan." 

"You  are,"  remarked  Sylvie,  "too  funny  for  words!  — 
You  and  I  are  to  take  supper  with  'Roger  Michael'!" 

A  red  came  into  Hagar's  cheek.  "Are  we?  Did  Mrs.  Le- 
Grand  say  so?" 

"Yes—" 

Hagar  lit  the  lamp.  " '  Roger  Michael '  — '  Roger  Michael ' 
—  Sylvie,  would  n't  you  rather  use  your  own  name  if  you 
wrote?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  answered  Sylvie  vaguely.  "What 
dress  are  you  going  to  wear?" 

"I  have  n't  any  but  the  green." 

"Then  wear  your  deep  lace  collar  with  it.  Cousin  Olivia 
wants  you  to  look  as  nice  as  possible.  Don't  you  want  me  to 
do  your  hair?" 

Hagar  placed  the  lamp  upon  the  wooden  slab  of  a  small, 
old-time  dressing-table.  That  done,  she  stood  and  looked 
at  herself  with  a  curious,  wistful  puckering  of  the  lips. 
"Sylvie,  prinking  and  fixing  up  does  n't  suit  me." 

"Don't  you  like  people  to  like  you?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  I  like  it  so  much  it  must  be  a  sin.  Only  not 
very  many  people  do.  .  .  .  And  I  don't  think  prinking 
helps." 

"Yes,  it  does.  If  you  look  pretty,  how  can  people  help 
liking  you?  It's  three  fourths  the  battle." 

Hagar  fell  to  considering  it.  "Is  it?  ...  But  then  we  don't 
all  think  the  same  thing  pretty  or  ugly."  The  red  showed 
again  like  wine  beneath  her  smooth,  dark  skin,  "Sylvie,  I'd 
like  to  be  beautiful.  I'd  like  to  be  as  beautiful  as  Beatrix 


EGLANTINE  61 

Esmond.  I'd  like  to  be  as  beautiful  as  Helen  of  Troy.  But 
everybody  at  Eglantine  thinks  I  am  ugly,  and  I  suppose  I 
am."  She  looked  wistfully  at  Sylvie. 

Now  in  the  back  of  Sylvie's  head  there  was  certainly  the 
thought  that  Hagar  ought  to  have  said,  "I'd  like  to  be  as 
beautiful  as  you,  Sylvie."  But  Sylvie  had  a  sweet  temper 
and  she  was  not  unmagnanimous.  "I  shouldn't  call  you 
ugly,"  she  said  judicially.  "You  are  n't  pretty,  and  I  don't 
believe  any  one  would  ever  call  you  so,  but  you  are  n't  at 
all  disagreeably  plain.  You've  got  something  that  makes 
people  ask  who  you  are.  I  would  n't  worry." 

"Oh,  I  was  n't  worrying!"  said  Hagar.  "I  was  only  pre 
ferring. —  I'll  wear  the  lace  collar."  She  took  it  out  of  a 
black  Japanned  box,  and  with  it  the  topaz  brooch  that  had 
been  her  mother's. 

The  visitor  from  England  found  the  large,  square  Eglan 
tine  parlour  an  interesting  room.  The  pier-glasses,  framed  in 
sallow  gilt,  the  many-prismed  chandelier,  the  old  velvet  car 
pet  strewn  with  large  soft  roses,  the  claw-foot  furniture,  the 
two  or  three  portraits  of  powdered  Colonial  gentlemen,  the 
bits  of  old  china,  the  framed  letters  bearing  signatures  that 
seemed  to  float  to  her  from  out  her  old  United  States  His 
tory  —  all  came  to  her  like  a  vague  fragrance  from  some  un 
usual  old  garden.  And  then,  curiously  superimposed  upon 
all  this,  appeared  memorials  of  four  catastrophic  years. 
Soldiers  and  statesmen  of  the  Confederacy  had  found  no 
time  in  which  to  have  their  portraits  painted.  But  Mrs.  Le- 
Grand  had  much  of  family  piety  and,  in  addition,  daguerreo 
types  and  cartes  de  visile  of  the  dead  and  gone.  With  her  first 
glow  of  prosperity  she  had  a  local  artist  paint  her  father  from 


62  HAGAR 

a  daguerreotype.  Stalwart,  with  a  high  Roman  face,  he  looked 
forth  in  black  broadcloth  with  a  roll  of  parchment  in  his 
hand.  The  next  year  she  had  had  her  husband  painted  in 
his  grey  brigadier's  uniform.  Her  two  brothers  followed, 
and  then  a  famous  kinsman  —  all  dead  and  gone,  all  slain  in 
battle.  The  portraits  were  not  masterpieces,  but  there  they 
were,  in  the  pathos  of  the  grey,  underneath  each  a  little  gilt 
plate.  "  Killed  at  Sharpsburg."  —  "  Killed  Leading  a  Charge 
in  the  Wilderness."  —  "  Killed  at  Cold  Harbour."  Upon  the 
wall,  against  the  pale,  century-old  paper,  hung  crossed  swords 
and  cavalry  pistols,  and  there  were  framed  commissions  and 
battle  orders,  and  an  empty  shell  propped  open  the  wide 
white-panelled  door.  The  English  visitor  found  it  all  strange 
and  interesting.  It  was  as  though  a  fragrance  of  dried  rose- 
leaves  contended  with  a  whiff  of  gunpowder.  The  small 
dining-room  into  which  presently  she  was  carried  had  fascin 
ating  prints  —  "Pocahontas  Baptized,"  and  "Pocahontas 
Married,"  and  a  group  of  women  with  children  and  several 
negroes  gathered  about  an  open  grave,  one  woman  standing 
out,  reading  the  burial  service.  —  Roger  Michael  was  so  in 
terested  that  she  would  have  liked  not  to  talk  at  all,  just 
to  sit  and  look  at  the  prints  and  mark  the  negro  servants 
passing  about  the  table.  But  Mrs.  LeGrand's  agreeable 
voice  was  asking  about  the  health  of  the  Queen  —  she  be 
stirred  herself  to  be  an  acceptable  guest. 

The  small  dining-room  was  separated  only  by  an  archway 
from  the  large  dining-room,  and  into  the  latter,  in  orderly 
files,  came  the  Eglantine  pupils,  wound  about  to  their  several 
tables  and  seated  themselves  with  demureness.  M.  Morel 
was  speaking  of  the  friendship  of  France  and  England. 


EGLANTINE  63 

Roger  Michael,  while  she  appeared  to  listen,  studied  these 
American  girls,  these  Southern  girls.  She  found  many  of 
them  pretty,  even  lovely,  —  not,  emphatically,  with  the  Eng 
lish  beauty  of  skin,  not  with  the  colour  of  New  England  girls, 
among  whom,  recently,  she  had  been,  —  not  with  the  stronger 
frame  that  was  coming  in  with  this  generation  of  admission  to 
out-of-door  exercise,  the  certain  boyish  alertness  and  poise 
that  more  and  more  she  was  seeing  exhibited,  —  but  pretty  or 
lovely,  with  delicacy  and  a  certain  languor,  a  dim  sweetness 
of  expression,  and,  precious  trove  in  America!  voices  that 
pleased.  She  noted  exceptions  to  type,  small,  swarthy  girls 
and  large  overgrown  ones,  girls  that  were  manifestly  robust, 
girls  that  were  alert,  girls  that  were  daring,  girls  that  were 
timid  or  stupid,  or  simply  anaemic,  girls  that  approached  the 
English  type  and  girls  that  were  at  the  very  antipodes  —  but 
the  general  impression  was  of  Farther  South  than  she  had  as 
yet  gone  in  America,  of  more  grace  and  slowness,  manner 
and  sweetness.  Their  clothes  interested  her;  they  were  so 
much  more  "  dressed ' '  than  they  would  have  been  in  England. 
Evidently,  in  deference  to  the  smaller  room,  there  was  to 
night  an  added  control  of  speech;  there  sounded  no  more  than 
a  pleasant  hum,  a  soft,  indistinguishable  murmur  of  young 
voices. 

"They  are  so  excited  over  the  prospect  of  your  speaking 
to  them  after  supper,"  said  Mrs.  LeGrand,  her  hand  upon 
the  coffee  urn.  —  "Cream  and  sugar?" 

"They  do  not  seem  excited,"  thought  Roger  Michael.  — 
"Sugar,  thank  you;  no  cream.  Of  what  shall  I  talk  to  them? 
In  what  are  they  especially  interested?" 

"In  your  charming  books,  I  should  say,"  answered  Mrs. 


64  HAGAR 

LeGrand.  "In  how  you  write  them,  and  in  the  authors  you 
must  know.  And  then  your  sweet  English  life  —  Stratford 
and  Canterbury  and  Devonshire — " 

"We  have  been  reading  'Lorna  Doone'  aloud  this  month," 
said  Miss  Carlisle.  "And  the  girls  very  cleverly  arranged  a 
little  play.  .  .  .  Sylvie  here  played  Lorna  beautifully." 

Roger  Michael  smiled  across  at  Hagar,  two  or  three  places 
down,  on  the  other  side  of  the  table.  "I  should  like  to  have 
seen  it,"  she  said  in  her  good,  deep  English  voice. 

"Oh,"  said  Hagar,  "I'm  not  Sylvie.  I  played  Lizzie." 

"This  is  my  little  cousin  and  god-daughter,  Sylvie  Maine," 
said  Mrs.  LeGrand.  "And  this  is  Hagar  Ashendyne,  the 
granddaughter  of  an  old  friend  and  connection  of  my  family." 

"Hagar  Ashendyne"  said  Roger  Michael.  "I  remember 
meeting  once  in  the  south  of  France  a  Southerner  —  a  Mr. 
Medway  Ashendyne." 

"Indeed?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  LeGrand.  "Then  you  have  met 
Hagar's  father.  Medway  Ashendyne!  He  is  a  great  traveller 
—  we  do  not  see  as  much  of  him  as  we  should  like  to  see,  do 
we,  Hagar?" 

"I  have  not  seen  him,"  said  Hagar,  "since  I  was  a  little 
girl." 

Her  voice,  though  low,  was  strange  and  vibrant.  "What's 
here?"  thought  Roger  Michael,  but  what  she  said  was  only, 
"He  was  a  very  pleasant  gentleman,  very  handsome,  very 
cultivated.  My  friends  and  I  were  thrown  with  him  during 
a  day  at  Carcassonne.  A  month  afterwards  we  met  him  at 
Aigues-Mortes.  He  was  sketching  —  quite  wonderfully." 

Mrs.  LeGrand  inwardly  deplored  Medway  Ashendyne's 
daughter's  lack  of  savoir-faire.  "To  give  herself  away  like 


EGLANTINE  65 

that!  Just  the  kind  of  thing  her  mother  used  to  do!"  Aloud 
she  said,  "Medway's  a  great  wanderer,  but  one  of  these  days 
he  will  come  home  and  settle  down  and  we'll  all  be  happy  to 
gether.  I  remember  him  as  a  young  man  —  a  perfectly  fascin 
ating  young  man.  —  Dinah,  bring  more  waffles!  —  Yes,  if 
you  will  tell  our  girls  something  of  your  charming  English 
life.  We  are  all  so  interested  — " 

Miss  Carlisle's  voice  came  in,  a  sweet  treble  like  a  canary's. 
"The  Princess  of  Wales  keeps  her  beauty,  does  she  not?" 

The  study  hall  was  a  long,  red  room,  well  enough  lighted, 
with  a  dais  holding  desk  and  chairs.  Roger  Michael,  seated 
in  one  of  these,  watched,  while  her  hostess  made  a  little 
speech  of  introduction,  the  bright  parterre  of  young  faces. 
Sitting  so,  she  excercised  a  discrimination  that  had  not 
been  possible  in  the  dining-room.  Of  the  faces  before  her 
each  was  different,  after  all,  from  the  other.  There  were  keen 
faces  as  well  as  languorous  ones ;  brows  that  promised  as  well 
as  those  that  did  not;  behind  the  prevailing  "sweet"  expres 
sion,  something  sometimes  that  showed  as  by  heat  lightning, 
something  that  had  depth.  "Here  as  elsewhere,"  thought 
Roger  Michael.  "The  same  life!" 

Mrs.  LeGrand  was  closing,  was  turning  toward  her.  She 
rose,  bowed  toward  the  mistress  of  Eglantine,  then,  standing 
square,  with  her  good,  English  figure  and  her  sensibly  shod, 
English  feet,  she  began  to  talk  to  these  girls. 
.  She  did  not,  however,  speak  to  them  as,  even  after  she  rose, 
she  meant  to  speak.  She  did  not  talk  letters  in  England,  nor 
English  landscape.  She  spoke  quite  differently.  She  spoke 
of  industrial  and  social  unrest,  of  conditions  among  the  toil 
ers  of  the  world.  "I  am  what  is  called  a  Fabian,"  she  said, 


66  HAGAR 

and  went  on  as  though  that  explained.  She  spoke  of  certain 
movements  in  thought,  of  breakings-away  toward  larger 
horizons.  She  spoke  of  various  heresies,  political,  social,  and 
other.  "Of  course  I  don't  call  them  heresies;  I  call  them  'the 
enlarging  vision.'"  She  gave  instances,  incidents;  she  spoke 
of  the  dawn  coming  over  the  mountains,  and  of  the  trumpet 
call  of  "  the  coming  time."  She  said  that  the  dying  nineteenth 
century  heard  the  stronger  voice  of  the  twentieth  century, 
and  that  it  was  a  voice  with  a  great  promise.  She  spoke  of 
women,  of  the  rapidly  changing  status  of  women,  of  what 
machinery  had  done  for  women,  of  what  education  had  done. 
She  spoke  of  the  great  needs  of  women,  of  their  learning  to 
organize,  of  the  need  for  unity  among  women.  She  used  the 
words  "false  position"  thrice.  "Woman's  immemorially 
false  position."  —  "  Society  has  so  falsely  placed  her."  — 
"Until  what  is  false  is  done  away  with."  —  She  said  that 
women  were  beginning  to  see.  She  said  that  the  next  quarter- 
century  would  witness  a  revolution.  "You  young  people  be 
fore  me  will  see  it;  some  of  you  will  take  part  in  it.  I  congrat 
ulate  you  on  living  when  you  will  live."  She  talked  for  nearly 
an  hour,  and  just  as  she  was  closing  it  came  to  her,  with  a  cer 
tain  effect  of  startling,  that  much  of  the  time  she  had  been 
speaking  to  just  one  countenance  there.  She  was  speaking 
directly  to  the  girl  called  Hagar  Ashendyne,  sitting  half 
way  down  the  hall.  When  she  took  her  seat  there  followed  a 
deep  little  moment  of  silence  broken  at  last  by  applause. 
Roger  Michael  marked  the  girl  in  green.  She  did  n't  applaud; 
she  sat  looking  very  far  away.  Mrs.  LeGrand  was  saying 
something  smoothly  perfunctory,  beflowered  with  personal 
compliments;  the  girls  all  stood;  the  Eglantine  hostess  and 


EGLANTINE  67 

guest,  with  the  teachers  who  had  been  at  table,  passed  from 
the  platform,  and  turned,  after  a  space  of  hallway,  into  the 
rose-carpeted  big  parlour. 

Miss  Carlisle  and  Miss  Bedford  brought  up  the  rear. 
"Did  n't  you  think,"  murmured  the  latter,  "that  that  was  a 
very  curious  speech  ?  Now  and  then  I  felt  so  uneasy.  —  It  was 
as  though  in  a  moment  she  was  going  to  say  something  indeli 
cate!  Dear  Mrs.  LeGrand  ought  to  have  told  her  how  care 
ful  we  are  with  our  girls." 

The  wind  rose  that  night  and  swept  around  the  tower 
room,  and  then,  between  eleven  and  twelve,  died  away  and 
left  a  calm  that  by  contrast  was  achingly  still.  Hagar  was  not 
yet  asleep.  She  lay  straight  and  still  in  the  narrow  bed,  her 
arms  behind  her  head.  She  was  rarely  in  a  hurry  to  go  to 
sleep.  This  hour  and  a  half  was  her  dreaming-awake  time, 
her  time  for  romance  building,  her  time  for  floating  here  and 
there,  as  in  a  Witch  of  Atlas  boat  in  her  own  No-woman's 
land.  She  had  in  the  stalls  of  her  mind  half  a  dozen  vague  and 
floating  romances,  silver  and  tenuous  as  mist;  one  night  she 
drove  one  afield,  another  night  another.  All  took  place  in  a 
kind  of  other  space,  in  countries  that  were  not  on  any  map. 
She  brought  imagined  physical  features  into  a  strange  juxta 
position.  When  the  Himalayas  haunted  her  she  ranged  them, 
snow-clad,  by  a  West  Indian  sea.  ^Etna  and  Chimborazo  rose 
over  against  each  other,  and  a  favourite  haunt  was  a  palm- 
fringed,  flower-starred  lawn  reached  only  through  crashing 
leagues  of  icebergs.  She  took  over  localities  that  other 
minds  had  made;  when  she  wished  to  she  pushed  aside  a  cur 
tain  of  vine  and  entered  the  Forest  of  Arden;  she  knew  how 
the  moonlight  fell  in  the  wood  outside  Athens;  she  entered 


68  HAGAR 

the  pilotless  boat  and  drove  toward  the  sunset  gate  of  the 
Domain  of  Arnheim.  Usually  speaking,  people  out  of  books 
made  the  population  of  these  places,  and  here,  too,  there  were 
strange  juxtapositions.  She  looped  and  folded  Time  like  a 
ribbon.  Mark  Antony  and  Robin  Hood  were  contemporaries ; 
Pericles  and  Philip  Sidney;  Ruth  and  Naomi  came  up  abreast, 
with  Joan  of  Arc,  and  all  three  with  Grace  Darling;  the 
Round  Table  and  the  Girondins  were  acquainted.  All  man 
ner  of  historic  and  fictive  folk  wandered  in  the  glades  of  her 
imagination,  any  kind  of  rendezvous  was  possible.  Much 
went  on  in  that  inner  world  —  doubts  and  dreams  and  dim 
hypotheses,  romance  run  wild,  Fata  Morganas,  Castles  in 
Spain,  passion  for  dead  shapes,  worship  of  heroes,  strange, 
dumb  stirrings  toward  self-immolation,  dreams  of  martyr 
dom,  mind  drenched  now  with  this  poem,  now  with  that, 
dream  life,  dream  adventures,  dream  princes,  religions,  world 
cataclysms,  passionings  over  a  colour,  a  tone,  a  line  of  verse  — 
much  utter  spring  and  burgeoning.  Eighteen  years  —  a  fluid 
unimprisoned  mind  —  and  no  confidante  but  herself;  of 
how  recapitulatory  were  these  hours,  of  how  youth  of 
all  the  ages  surged,  pulsed,  vibrated  through  her  slender 
frame,  she  had,  of  course,  no  adequate  notion.  She  would 
simply  have  said  that  she  could  n't  sleep,  and  that  she  liked 
to  tell  herself  stories.  As  she  lay  here  now,  she  was  not 
thinking  of  Roger  Michael's  talk,  though  she  had  thought  of 
it  for  the  first  twenty  minutes  after  she  had  put  out  the 
lamp.  It  had  been  very  interesting,  and  it  had  stirred  her 
while  it  was  in  the  saying,  but  the  grappling  hook  had  not 
finally  held;  she  was  not  ready  for  it.  She  had  let  it  slip  from 
her  mind  in  favour  of  the  rose  and  purple  and  deep  violin 


EGLANTINE  69 

humming  of  one  of  her  romances.  She  had  lain  for  an  hour 
in  a  great  wood,  like  a  wood  in  Xanadu,  beneath  trees  that 
touched  the  sky,  and  like  an  elfin  stream  had  gone  by 
knights  and  ladies.  .  .  .  The  great  clock  down  in  the  hall 
struck  twelve.  She  turned  her  slender  body,  and  the  bed 
being  pushed  against  the  window,  laid  her  outstretched 
hands  upon  the  window-sill,  and  looked  up,  between  the  spec 
tral  sycamore  boughs,  to  where  Sirius  blazed.  Dream  wood 
and  dream  shapes  took  flight.  She  lay  with  parted  lips,  her 
mind  quiet,  her  soul  awake.  Minutes  passed;  a  cloud  drove 
behind  the  sycamore  branches  and  hid  the  star.  First  blank- 
ness  came  and  then  again  unrest.  She  sat  up  in  bed,  pushing 
her  two  heavy  braids  of  hair  back  over  her  shoulders.  The 
small  clock  upon  the  mantel  ticked  and  ticked.  The  little 
room  looked  cold  in  the  watery  moonlight.  Hagar  was  not 
dreaming  or  imagining  now;  she  was  thinking  back.  She  sat 
very  still  for  five  minutes,  tears  slowly  gathering  in  her  eyes. 
At  last  she  turned  and  lay  face  down  upon  the  bed,  her  out 
stretched  hands  against  the  wooden  frame.  Her  tears  wet 
the  sleeve  of  her  gown.  "Carcassonne  —  Aigues-Mortes. 
Carcassonne  —  Aigues-Mortes.  .  .  . " 


CHAPTER  VII 

MR.   LAYDON 

THE  winter  was  so  open,  so  mild  and  warm,  that  a  few  pale 
roses  clung  to  their  stems  through  half  of  December.  Christ 
mas  proved  a  green  Christmas ;  neither  snow  nor  ice,  but  soft, 
Indian  summer  weather.  Eglantine  always  gave  two  weeks' 
holiday  at  Christmas.  It  was  a  great  place  for  holidays. 
Right  and  left  went  the  girls.  Those  whose  own  homes  were 
too  far  away  went  with  roommates  or  bosom  friends  to  theirs; 
hardly  a  pupil  was  left  to  mope  in  the  rooms  that  grew  so  still. 
Most  of  the  teachers  went  away.  The  scattering  was  general. 
But  Hagar  remained  at  Eglantine.  Gilead  Balm  was  a 
good  long  way  off.  She  had  gone  home  last  Christmas  and 
the  Christmas  before,  but  this  year  —  she  hardly  knew  how 
—  she  had  missed  it.  In  the  most  recently  received  of  his 
rare  letters  her  grandfather  had  explicitly  stated  that,  though 
he  was  prepared  to  pay  for  her  schooling  and  to  support  her 
until  she  married,  she  must,  on  her  side,  get  along  with  as 
little  money  as  possible.  It  was  criminal  that  he  had  so 
little  nowadays,  but  such  was  the  melancholy  fact.  The 
whole  world  was  going  to  the  dogs.  He  sometimes  felt  a 
cold  doubt  as  to  whether  he  could  hold  Gilead  Balm.  He 
wished  to  die  there,  at  any  rate.  Hagar  had  been  very 
unhappy  over  that  letter,  and  it  set  her  to  wondering 
more  strongly  than  ever  about  money,  and  to  longing  to 
make  it.  In  her  return  letters  he  suggested  that  she  stay  at 


MR.  LAYDON  71 

Eglantine  this  Christmas,  and  so  save  travelling  expenses. 
And  in  order  that  Gilead  Balm  might  not  feel  that  she  would 
be  too  dreadfully  disappointed,  she  said  that  it  was  very 
pleasant  at  Eglantine,  and  that  several  of  the  girls  were 
going  to  stay,  and  that  she  would  be  quite  happy  and 
would  n't  mind  it  much,  though  of  course  she  wanted  to  see 
them  all  at  Gilead  Balm.  The  plan  was  of  her  suggesting, 
but  she  had  not  realized  that  they  might  fall  in  with  it. 
When  her  grandmother  answered  at  length,  explaining  losses 
that  the  Colonel  had  sustained,  and  agreeing  that  this  year 
it  might  be  best  for  her  to  stay  at  Eglantine,  she  tried  not  to 
feel  desperately  hurt  and  despondent.  She  loved  Gilead 
Balm,  loved  it  as  much  as  her  mother  had  hated  it.  Old 
Miss's  letter  had  shown  her  own  disappointment,  but  — 
"You  are  getting  to  be  a  woman  and  must  consider  the 
family.  Ashendyne  and  Coltsworth  women,  I  am  glad  to 
say,  have  always  known  their  duty  to  the  family  and  have 
lived  up  to  it."  The  last  half  of  the  letter  had  a  good  deal  to 
say  of  Ralph  Coltsworth  who  was  at  the  University. 

Hagar  was  here  at  Eglantine,  and  it  was  two  days  before 
Christmas,  and  most  of  the  girls  were  gone.  Sylvie  was  gone. 
The  teacher  whom  she  liked  best  —  Miss  Gage  —  was  gone. 
Mrs.  LeGrand,  who  liked  holidays,  too,  was  going.  Mrs. 
Lane  and  Miss  Bedford  and  the  housekeeper  were  not 
going,  and  they  and  the  servants  would  look  after  Eglantine. 
Besides  these  there  would  be  left  the  books  in  the  book-room, 
and  Hagar  would  have  leave  to  be  out  of  doors,  in  the  wind 
ing  walks  and  beneath  the  trees,  alone  and  whenever  she 
pleased.  The  weather  was  dreamy  still;  everywhere  a  warm 
amethyst  haze. 


72  HAGAR 

This  morning  had  come  a  box  from  Gilead  Balm.  Her 
grandmother  had  filled  it  with  good  things  to  eat  and  the 
Colonel  sent  his  love  and  a  small  gold-piece.  There  was  a 
pretty  belt  from  Captain  Bob  and  a  hand-painted  plate  and 
a  soft  pink  wool,  shell-pattern,  crocheted  "fascinator"  from 
Miss  Serena.  Mrs.  Green  sent  a  hemstitched  handkerchief, 
and  the  servants  sent  a  Christmas  card.  Through  the  box 
were  scattered  little  sprays  from  the  Gilead  Balm  cedars, 
and  there  was  a  bunch  of  white  and  red  and  button  chrysan 
themums.  Hagar,  sitting  on  the  hearth-rug,  unpacked 
everything;  then  went  off  into  a  brown  study,  the  chrysan 
themums  in  her  lap. 

Later  in  the  morning  she  arranged  upon  the  hand-painted 
plate  some  pieces  of  home-made  candy,  several  slices  of  fruit 
cake,  three  or  four  lady  apples,  and  a  number  of  Old  Miss's 
exquisitely  thin  and  crisp  wafers,  and  with  it  in  her  hand 
went  downstairs  to  Mrs.  LeGrand's  room,  knocked  at  the 
door,  and  was  bidden  to  enter.  Mrs.  LeGrand  half-raised 
herself  from  a  flowery  couch  near  the  fire,  put  the  novel 
that  she  was  reading  behind  her  pillow,  and  stretched  out 
her  hand.  "Ah,  Hagar!  —  Goodies  from  Gilead  Balm?  How 
nice!  Thank  you,  my  dear!"  She  took  a  piece  of  cocoanut 
candy,  then  waved  the  hand-painted  plate  to  the  round 
table.  "Put  it  there,  dear  child!  Now  sit  down  for  a  minute 
and  keep  me  company." 

Hagar  took  the  straight  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hearth.  The  bright,  leaping  flame  was  between  the  two.  It 
made  a  kind  of  softer  daylight,  and  full  in  the  heart  of  it 
showed  Mrs.  LeGrand's  handsome,  not  yet  elderly  counte 
nance,  the  ripe  fullness  of  her  bust,  covered  by  a  figured  silk 


MR.  LAYDON  73 

dressing-sacque,  and  her  smooth,  well-shaped,  carefully  tended 
hands.  Hagar  conceived  that  it  was  her  duty  to  think  well 
and  highly  of  Mrs.  LeGrand,  who  was  such  an  old  friend  of 
the  family,  and  who,  she  knew,  out  of  these  same  friendly 
considerations,  was  keeping  her  at  Eglantine  on  the  easiest 
of  terms.  Yes,  it  was  certainly  her  duty  to  love  and  admire 
Mrs.  LeGrand.  That  she  did  not  do  so  caused  her  qualms 
of  conscience.  Many  of  the  girls  raved  about  Mrs.  LeGrand, 
and  so  did  Miss  Carlisle  and  Miss  Bedford.  Hagar  supposed 
with  a  sigh  that  there  was  something  wrong  with  her  own 
heart.  To-day,  as  she  sat  in  the  straight  chair,  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap,  she  experienced  a  resurgence  of  an  old 
childhood  dislike.  She  saw  again  the  Gilead  Balm  library, 
and  the  pool  of  sunlight  on  the  floor  and  the  "Descent  of 
Man,"  and  heard  again  Mrs.  LeGrand  telling  the  Bishop 
that  she  —  Hagar  —  was  reading  an  improper  book.  Time 
between  then  and  now  simply  took  itself  away  like  a  painted 
drop-scene.  Six  years  rolled  themselves  up  as  with  a  spring, 
and  that  hour  seamlessly  adjoined  this  hour. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  LeGrand,  "that  you'll  be  a  little 
lonely,  dear  child,  but  it  won't  be  for  long.  Time  flies  so!" 

"I  don't  exactly  get  lonely,"  said  Hagar  gravely.  "You 
are  going  down  the  river,  are  n't  you?" 

"Yes,  for  ten  days.  My  dear  friends  at  Idlewood  won't 
hear  of  my  not  coming.  They  were  my  dear  husband's  dear 
est  cousins.  Mrs.  Lane  and  Miss  Bedford,  together  with 
Mrs.  Brown,  will  take,  I  am  sure,  the  best  of  care  of  things 
here." 

"Yes,  of  course.  We'll  get  on  beautifully,"  said  Hagar. 
"Mr.  Laydon  is  not  going  away  either.  His  mother  is  ill  and 


74  HAGAR 

he  will  not  leave  her.  He  says  that  if  we  like  to  listen,  he  will 
come  over  in  the  evenings  and  read  aloud  to  us." 

Mr.  Laydon  was  teacher  of  Belles-Lettres  at  Eglantine,  a 
well-looking  young  gentleman,  with  a  good  voice,  and 
apparently  a  sincere  devotion  to  the  best  literature.  Eglan 
tine  and  Mr.  Laydon  alike  believed  in  the  future  of  Mr. 
Laydon.  It  was  understood  that  his  acceptance  of  a  position 
here  was  of  the  nature  of  a  makeshift,  a  mere  pot-boiler  on 
his  road  to  high  places.  He  and  his  mother  were  domiciled 
with  a  cousin  from  whose  doorstep  you  might  toss  a  pebble 
into  the  Eglantine  grounds.  In  the  past  few  years  the  neigh 
bouring  town  had  begun  to  grow;  it  had  thrown  out  a  street 
which  all  but  touched  the  osage-orange  hedge. 

Mrs.  LeGrand  made  a  slight  motion  with  her  hand  on  which 
was  her  wedding-ring,  with  an  old  pearl  ring  for  guard.  "I 
shall  tell  Mrs.  Lane  not  to  let  him  do  that  too  often.  I  have 
a  great  esteem  for  Mr.  Laydon,  but  Eglantine  cannot  be  too 
careful.  No  one  with  girls  in  their  charge  can  be  too  careful! 
—  What  is  the  Gilead  Balm  news?" 

"The  letter  was  from  grandmother.  She  is  well,  and  so  is 
grandfather.  They  have  had  a  great  deal  of  company.  Uncle 
Bob  has  had  rheumatism,  but  he  goes  hunting  just  the  same. 
The  Hawk  Nest  Coltsworths  are  coming  for  Christmas  —  all 
except  Ralph.  He  is  going  home  with  a  classmate.  Grand 
mother  says  he  is  the  handsomest  man  at  the  University,  and 
that  if  I  hear  tales  of  his  wildness  I  am  not  to  believe  them. 
She  says  all  men  are  a  little  wild  at  first.  Aunt  Serena  is 
learning  how  to  illuminate  texts.  Mrs.  Green  has  gone  to  see 
her  daughter,  who  has  something  the  matter  with  her  spine. 
Thomasine's  uncle  in  New  York  is  going  to  have  her  visit  him, 


MR.  LAYDON  75 

and  grandmother  thinks  he  means  to  get  Thomasine  a  place 
in  a  store.  Grandmother  says  no  girl  ought  to  work  in  a  store, 
but  Thomasine's  people  are  very  poor,  and  I  don't  see  what 
she  can  do.  She's  got  to  live.  Corker  has  a  place,  but  he 
is  n't  doing  very  well.  Car'line  and  Isham  have  put  a  porch 
to  their  cabin,  and  Mary  Magazine  has  gotten  religion." 

"Girls  of  Thomasine's  station,"  said  Mrs.  LeGrand,  "are 
beginning  more  and  more,  I'm  sorry  to  see,  to  leave  home 
to  work  for  pay.  It's  spreading,  too;  it's  not  confined  to  girls 
of  her  class.  Only  yesterday  I  heard  that  a  bright,  pretty 
girl  that  I  used  to  know  at  the  White  had  gone  to  Philadelphia 
to  study  to  be  a  nurse,  and  there's  Nellie  Wynne  trying  to  be 
a  journalist!  A  journalist!  There  is  n't  the  least  excuse  for 
either  of  those  cases.  One  of  those  girls  has  a  brother  and 
the  other  a  father  quite  able  to  support  them." 

"But  if  there  really  is  n't  any  one?"  said  Hagar  wistfully. 
"And  if  you  feel  that  you  are  costing  a  lot  —  "  Her  dreams 
at  night  were  beginning  to  be  shot  with  a  vague  but  insistent 
"If  I  could  write  —  if  I  could  paint  or  teach  —  if  I  could 
earn  money  — " 

"There  is  almost  always  some  one,"  answered  Mrs. 
LeGrand.  "And  if  a  girl  knows  how  to  make  the  best  of 
herself,  there  inevitably  arrives  her  own  establishment  and 
the  right  man  to  take  care  of  her.  If"  —  she  shrugged  — 
"if  she  does  n't  know  how  to  make  the  best  of  herself,  she 
might  as  well  go  work  in  a  store.  No  one  would  especially 
object.  That  is,  they  would  not  object  except  that  when  that 
kind  of  thing  creeps  up  higher  in  the  scale  of  society,  and 
girls  who  can  perfectly  well  be  supported  at  home  go  out 
and  work  for  pay,  it  makes  an  unfortunate  kind  of  precedent 


76  HAGAR 

and  reacts  and  reflects  upon  those  who  do  know  how  to  make 
the  best  of  themselves." 

Hagar  spoke  diffidently.  "  But  a  lot  of  women  had  to  work 

after  the  war.  Mrs.  Lane  and  General 's  daughters,  and 

you  yourself — " 

"That  is  quite  different,"  said  Mrs.  LeGrand.  "Gentle 
women  in  reduced  circumstances  may  have  to  battle  alone 
with  the  world,  but  they  do  not  like  it,  and  it  is  only  hard 
fate  that  has  put  them  in  that  position.  It's  an  unnatural 
one,  and  they  feel  it  as  such.  What  I  am  talking  of  is  that 
nowadays  you  see  women  —  young  women  —  actually  choos 
ing  to  stand  alone,  actually  declining  support,  and  —  er  — 
refusing  generally  to  make  the  best  of  themselves.  It 's  part  of 
the  degeneracy  of  the  times  that  you  begin  to  see  women  — 
women  of  breeding  —  in  all  kinds  of  public  places,  working 
for  their  living.  It's  positively  shocking!  It  opens  the  gate 
to  all  kinds  of  things." 

"Wrong  things?" 

"Ideas,  notions.  Roger  Michael's  ideas,  for  instance, — 
which  I  must  say  are  extremely  wrong-headed.  I  regretted 
that  I  had  asked  her  here.  She  was  hardly  feminine."  Mrs. 
LeGrand  stretched  herself,  rubbed  her  plump,  firm  arms, 
from  which  the  figured  silk  had  fallen  back,  and  rose  from 
the  couch.  "I  hope  that  Eglantine  girls  will  always  think 
of  these  things  as  ladies  should.  And  now,  my  dear,  will  you 
tell  Mrs.  Lane  that  I  want  to  see  her?" 

Mrs.  LeGrand  went  away  from  Eglantine  for  ten  days. 
Of  the  women  teachers  living  in  the  house,  all  went  but  Mrs. 
Lane  and  Miss  Bedford.  All  the  girls  went  but  three,  and 
they  were,  first,  Hagar  Ashendyne;  second,  a  pale  thin  girl 


MR.  LAYDON  77 

from  the  Far  South,  a  martyr  to  sick  headaches;  and  third, 
Francie  Smythe,  a  girl  apparently  without  many  home 
people.  Francie  was  sweetly  dull,  with  small  eyes  and  a 
perpetual  smile. 

How  quiet  seemed  the  great  house  with  its  many  rooms! 
They  closed  the  large  dining-room  and  used  the  small  room 
where  Roger  Michael  had  supped.  They  shut  the  classrooms 
and  the  study-hall  and  the  book-room,  and  sat  in  the  even 
ings  in  the  bowery,  flowery  parlour.  Here,  the  very  first 
evening,  and  the  second,  came  Mr.  Laydon  with  Browning 
in  one  pocket  and  Tennyson  in  the  other. 

Mrs.  Lane  was  knitting  an  afghanof  a  complicated  pattern. 
Her  lips  moved  softly,  continuously,  counting.  Mr.  Laydon, 
making  an  eloquent  pause  midway  of  "Tithonous"  caught 
this  One  —  two  —  three — four  —  and  had  a  fleeting  expres 
sion  of  pain.  Mrs.  Lane  saw  the  depth  to  which  she  had 
sunk  in  his  esteem  and  flushed  over  her  delicate,  pensive 
face.  For  the  remainder  of  the  hour  she  sat  with  her  knit 
ting  in  her  lap.  But  really  the  afghan  must  be  finished,  and 
so,  the  second  evening,  she  placed  her  chair  so  as  to  face  not 
the  reader  but  a  shadowy  corner,  and  so  knit  and  counted  in 
peace.  Miss  Bedford  neither  knit  nor  counted;  she  said  that 
she  adored  poetry  and  sighed  rapturously  where  something 
seemed  to  be  indicated.  She  also  adored  conversation  and 
argumentation  as  to  this  or  that  nice  point.  What  did  Mr. 
Laydon  think  Browning  really  meant  in  "Childe  Roland," 
and  was  Porphyria's  lover  really  mad?  Was  Amy  really  to 
blame  in  "Locksley  Hall"?  Miss  Bedford  made  play  with 
her  rather  fine  eyes  and  teased  the  fringe  of  the  table-cover. 
The  pale  girl  from  the  Far  South  —  Lily  was  her  name  — 


78  HAGAR 

sat  by  the  fire  and  now  rubbed  her  forehead  with  a  menthol 
pencil  and  now  stroked  Tipsy  Parson,  Mrs.  LeGrand's  big 
black  cat.  Francie  Smythe  had  a  muslin  apron  full  of  col 
oured  silks  and  was  embroidering  a  centre-piece  —  yellow 
roses  with  leaves  and  thorns.  Francie  was  a  great  embroid 
erer.  Hagar  sat  upon  a  low  stool  by  the  hearth,  over  against 
Lily,  close  to  the  slowly  burning  logs.  She  was  a  Fire- 
Worshipper.  The  flames  were  better  to  her  than  jewels,  and 
the  glowing  alleys  and  caverns  below  were  treasure  caves 
and  temples.  She  sat  listening  in  the  rosy  light,  her  chin 
in  her  hands.  She  thought  that  Mr.  Laydon  read  very  well 
—  very  well,  indeed. 

" '  Where  the  quiet-coloured  end  of  evening  smiles, 

Miles  and  miles, 
On  the  solitary  pastures  — '  " 

Midway  of  the  poem  she  turned  a  little  so  that  she  could 
see  the  reader. 

He  sat  in  the  circle  of  lamplight,  a  presentable  man,  well- 
formed,  dark-eyed,  and  enthusiastic;  fairly  presentable 
within,  too,  very  fairly  clean,  a  good  son,  filled  with  not 
unhonourable  ambitions;  good,  average,  human  stuff  with 
an  individual  touch  of  impressionability  and  a  strong  desire 
to  be  liked,  as  he  expressed  it,  "for  himself";  young  still, 
with  the  momentum  and  emanation  of  youth.  The  lamp  had 
a  rose  and  amber  shade.  It  threw  a  softened,  coloured, 
dreamy  light.  Everything  within  its  range  was  subtly 
altered  and  enriched. 

*  *  And  I  knew  —  while  thus  the  quiet-coloured  eve 
Smiles  to  leave 


MR.  LAYDON  79 

To  their  folding,  all  our  many  tinkling  fleece 

In  such  peace, 
And  the  slopes  and  rills  in  undistinguished  grey 

Melt  away  — '" 

Hagar  sat  in  her  corner,  upon  the  low  stool,  in  the  fire 
light,  as  motionless  as  though  she  were  in  a  trance.  Her  eyes, 
large,  of  a  marvellous  hazel,  beneath  straight,  well-pencilled 
brows  of  deepest  brown,  were  fixed  steadily  upon  the  man 
reading.  Slowly,  tentatively,  something  rich  and  delicate 
seemed  to  rise  within  her,  something  that  clung  to  soul  and 
body,  something  strange,  sweet  and  painful,  something  that, 
spreading  and  deepening  with  great  swiftness,  suffused  her 
being  and  made  her  heart  at  once  ecstatic  and  sorrowful.  She 
blushed  deeply,  felt  the  crimsoning,  and  wished  to  drop  her 
head  upon  her  arms  and  be  alone  in  a  balmy  darkness.  It 
was  as  though  she  were  in  a  strange  dream,  or  in  one  of  her 
long  romances  come  real. 

"  *  In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters  forth, 

South  and  North, — 
And  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar  high 

As  the  sky  — ... 
.  .  .  Love  is  best.' " 

Laydon  put  the  book  down  upon  the  table.  While  he  read, 
one  of  the  maids,  Zinia,  had  brought  a  note  to  Miss  Bedford, 
and  that  lady  had  gone  away  to  answer  it.  Mrs.  Lane  knitted 
on,  her  lips  moving,  her  back  to  the  table  and  the  hearth. 
Francie  Smythe  was  sorting  silks.  "That  was  a  lovely  piece/' 
she  said  unemotionally,  and  went  on  dividing  orange  from 
lemon.  The  girl  with  the  menthol  pencil  was  more  appre 
ciative.  "Once,  when  I  was  a  little  girl  I  went  with  my 


80  HAGAR 

father  and  mother  to  Rome.  We  went  out  on  the  Campagna. 
I  remember  now  how  it  was  all  green  and  flat  and  wide  as 
the  sea  and  still,  and  there  were  great  arches  running  away 
—  away  —  and  a  mist  that  they  said  was  fever."  Her  voice 
sank.  She  sighed  and  rubbed  her  forehead  with  the  menthol. 
Her  eyes  closed. 

Edgar  Laydon  rose  and  came  into  the  circle  of  firelight. 
He  was  moved  by  his  own  reading,  shaken  with  the  impulse 
and  rhythm  of  the  poem.  He  stood  by  the  mantel  and  faced 
Hagar.  She  was  one  of  his  pupils,  she  recited  well;  of  the 
essays,  the  "compositions,"  which  were  produced  under  his 
direction,  hers  were  the  best;  he  had  told  her  more  than  once 
that  her  work  was  good;  in  short,  he  was  kindly  disposed  to 
ward  her.  To  this  instant  that  was  all;  he  was  scrupulously 
correct  in  his  attitude  toward  the  young  ladies  whom  he 
taught.  He  had  for  his  work  a  kind  of  unnecessary  scorn;  he 
felt  that  he  ought  to  be  teaching  men,  or  at  the  very  least 
should  hold  a  chair  in  some  actual  college  for  women.  Eglan 
tine  was  nothing  but  a  Young  Ladies'  Seminary.  He  felt 
quite  an  enormous  gulf  between  himself  and  those  around 
him,  and,  as  a  weakness  will  sometimes  quaintly  do,  this 
feeling  kept  him  steady.  Until  this  moment  he  was  as  in 
different  to  Hagar  Ashendyne,  as  to  any  one  of  the  fifty 
whom  he  taught,  and  he  was  indifferent  to  them  all.  He  had 
a  picture  in  his  mind  of  the  woman  whom  some  day  he  meant 
to  find  and  woo,  but  she  was  n't  in  the  least  like  any  one  at 
Eglantine. 

Now,  in  an  instant,  came  a  change.  Hagar's  eyes,  very 
quiet  and  limpid,  were  upon  him.  Perhaps,  deep  down,  far 
distant  from  her  conscious  self,  she  willed  and  exercised  an 


MR.  LAYDON  81 

ancient  power  of  her  sex  and  charmed  him  to  her;  perhaps 

—  in  his  lifted  mood,  the  great,  sensuous  swing  of  the  verse 
still  with  him,  the  written  cry  of  passion  faintly  drumming 
within  his  veins  —  he  would  have  suddenly  linked  that  dif 
fused  emotion  to  whatever  presence,  young  and  far  from  un- 
pleasing,  might  have  risen  at  this  moment  to  confront  him. 
However  that  may  be,  Laydon's  eyes  and  those  of  Hagar 
met.   Each  gaze  held  the  other  for  a  breathless  moment, 
then  the  lids  fell,  the  heart  beat  violently,  a  colour  surged 
over  the  face  and  receded,  leaving  each  face  pale.   A  log, 
burned  through,  parted,  striking  the  hearth  with  a  sound 
like  the  click  of  a  closing  trap. 

Mrs.  Lane,  having  come  to  an  easy  part  in  the  pattern, 
turned  her  face  to  the  rest  of  the  room.  "Are  n't  we  going  to 
have  some  more  poetry?  Read  us  some  more,  Mr.  Laydon." 

The  girl  with  the  menthol  pencil  spoke  dreamily.  "Is  n't 
there  another  piece  about  the  Campagna?  I  can  see  it  plain 

—  green  like  the  sea  and  arches  and  tombs  and  a  mist  hang- 
ine  over  it,  and  a  road  going  on  —  a  road  going  on  —  a  road 
going  on." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HAGAR  AND  LAYDON 

THIS  is  what  they  did.  The  next  day  was  soft  as  balm.  To 
Hagar,  sitting  in  the  sun  on  the  step  of  the  west  porch,  came 
the  sound  of  steps  over  the  fallen  leaves  of  what  was  called 
at  Eglantine  the  Syringa  Alley  —  sycamore  boughs  above 
and  syringa  bushes  thickly  planted  and  grown  tall,  making 
winding  walls  for  a  winding  path.  The  red  surged  over 
Hagar,  her  eyes,  dark-ringed,  half-closed.  Laydon,  emerging 
from  the  alley,  came  straight  toward  her,  over  a  space  of 
gravel  and  wind-brought  leaves.  It  was  mid-morning,  the 
place  open  and  sunny,  to  be  viewed  from  more  windows  than 
one,  with  the  servants,  moreover,  going  to  and  fro  on  their 
morning  business,  apt  to  pass  this  gable  end.  Aunt  Dorinda, 
for  instance,  the  old,  turbaned  cook,  passed,  but  she  saw 
nothing  but  one  of  the  teachers  stopping  to  say,  "Merry 
Christmas!"  to  Miss  Hagar.  All  the  servants  liked  Miss 
Hagar. 

What  Laydon  said  was  not  "Merry  Christmas!"  but, 
"Hagar,  Hagar!  that  was  Love  came  to  us  last  night!  I  have 
not  slept.  I  have  been  like  a  madman  all  night!  I  did  not 
know  there  was  such  a  force  in  the  world." 

"  I  did  not  sleep  either,"  answered  Hagar.  "  I  did  not  sleep 
at  all." 

"Every  one  can  see  us  here.  Let  us  walk  toward  the  gate, 
through  the  alley." 


HAGAR  AND  LAYDON  83 

She  rose  from  the  step  and  went  with  him.  Well  in  the 
shelter  of  the  syringa,  hidden  from  the  house,  he  stopped, 
and  laid  his  hands  lightly  upon  her  shoulders,  then,  as  she 
did  not  resist,  drew  her  to  him.  They  kissed,  they  clung 
together  in  a  long  embrace,  they  uttered  love's  immemorial 
words,  smothering  each  with  each,  then  they  fell  apart; 
and  Hagar  first  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  then,  uncover 
ing  it,  broke  into  tremulous  laughter,  laughter  that  had  a 
sobbing  note. 

"What  will  they  say  at  Gilead  Balm — oh,  what  will  they 
say  at  Gilead  Balm?" 

"Say!"  answered  Laydon.  "They  '11  say  that  they  wish 
your  happiness!  Hagar,  how  old  are  you?" 

"I'm  nearly  eighteen." 

"And  old  for  your  years.  And  I  —  I  am  twenty-eight,  and 
young  for  my  years."  Laydon  laughed,  too.  He  was  giddy 
with  happiness.  "Gilead  Balm!  What  a  strange  name  for  a 
place  —  and  you've  lived  there  always  — " 

"Always." 

They  were  moving  now  down  the  alley  toward  a  gate  that 
gave  upon  the  highroad.  Near  by  lay  an  open  field  seized 
upon,  at  Christmas,  by  a  mob  of  small  boys  with  squibs  and 
torpedoes  and  cannon  crackers.  They  had  a  bonfire,  and  the 
wood  smoke  drifted  across,  together  with  the  odour  of  burn 
ing  powder.  The  boys  were  shouting  like  Liliputian  soldiery, 
and  the  squibs  and  giant  crackers  shook  the  air  as  with  a 
continuous  elfin  bombardment.  The  nearest  church  was 
ringing  its  bells.  Laydon  and  Hagar  came  to  the  gate  —  not 
the  main  but  a  lesser  entrance  to  Eglantine.  No  one  was 
in  view;  hand  in  hand  they  leaned  against  the  wooden  pal- 


84  HAGAR 

ings.  Before  them  stretched  the  road,  an  old,  country  pike 
going  on  and  on  between  cedar  and  locust  and  thorn  until  it 
dropped  into  the  violet  distance. 

"I  wish  we  were  out  upon  it,"  said  Hagar;  "I  wish  we 
were  out  upon  it,  going  on  and  on  through  the  world,  travel 
ling  like  gipsies!" 

"You  look  like  a  gipsy,"  he  said.  "Have  you  got  gipsy 
blood  in  you?" 

"No.  .  .  .  Yes.  Just  to  go  on  and  on.  The  open  road  — 
and  a  clear  fire  at  night  —  and  to  see  all  things  — " 

"Hagar —  Why  did  they  call  you  Hagar?" 

"I  don't  know.   My  mother  named  me." 

"Hagar,  we've  got  to  think  a  little.  ...  It  took  us  so 
by  surprise.  .  .  .  We  had  best,  I  think,  just  quietly  say 
nothing  to  anybody  for  a  while.  .  .  .  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"I  had  not  thought  about  it,  but  I  will,"  said  Hagar.  She 
gazed  down  the  road,  her  brows  knit.  The  Christmas  cannon 
ading  went  on,  a  continuous  miniature  tearing  and  shaking 
of  the  air,  with  a  dwarf  shouting  and  laughing,  and  small 
coalescing  clouds  of  powder  smoke.  The  road  ran,  a  quiet, 
sunny  streak,  past  this  small  bedlam,  into  the  still  distance. 
"I  won't  tell  any  one  at  Eglantine,"  she  said  at  last,  "until 
Mrs.  LeGrand  comes  back.  She  will  be  back  in  a  week.  But 
I'll  write  to  grandmother  to-night." 

Laydon  measured  the  gate  with  his  hand.  "I  had  rather 
not  tell  my/mother  at  once.  She  is  very  delicate  and  nervous, 
and  perhaps  she  has  grown  a  little  selfish  in  her  love  for  me. 
Besides,  she  had  set  her  heart  on  — "  He  threw  that  matter 
aside,  it  being  a  young  and  attractive  kinswoman  with 
money.  "I  had  rather  not  tell  her  just  now.  Then,  as  to 


HAGAR  AND   LAYDON  85 

Mrs.  LeGrand.  ...  Of  course,  I  suppose,  as  I  am  a  teacher 
here,  and  you  are  a  pupil  .  .  .  but  there,  too,  had  we  not 
best  delay  a  little?  It  will  make  a  confusion  —  things  will 
be  said  —  my  position  will  become  an  embarrassing  one. 
And  you,  too,  Hagar,  —  it  won't  be  pleasant  for  you  either. 
Is  n't  it  better  just  to  keep  our  own  concerns  to  ourselves  for 
a  while?  And  your  people  up  the  river  —  why  not  not  tell 
them  until  summer-time?  Then,  when  you  go  home,  —  and 
when  I  have  finished  my  engagement  here,  for  I  don't  pro 
pose  to  come  back  to  Eglantine  next  year,  —  then  you  can 
tell  them,  and  so  much  better  than  you  could  write  it!  I 
could  follow  you  to  Gilead  Balm  —  we  could  tell  them 
together.  Then  we  could  discuss  matters  and  our  future 
intelligently  —  and  that  is  impossible  at  the  moment.  Let 
us  just  quietly  keep  our  happiness  to  ourselves  for  a  while! 
Why  should  the  world  pry  into  it?"  He  seized  her  hands 
and  pressed  his  face  against  them.  "Let  us  be  happy  and 
silent." 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  candid  eyes.  "No,  we  should  n't 
be  happy  that  way.  I'll  write  to  grandmother  to-night." 

They  gazed  at  each  other,  the  gate  between  them.  The 
strong  enchantment  held,  but  a  momentary  perplexity 
crossed  it,  and  the  never  long-laid  dust  of  pain  was  stirred. 
"  I  am  not  asking  anything  wrong,"  said  Laydon,  a  hurt  note 
in  his  voice.  "I  only  see  certain  embarrassments  —  diffi 
culties  that  may  arise.  But,  darling,  darling!  it  shall  be  just 
as  you  please!  'I'd  crowns  resign  to  call  you  mine'  —  and 
so  I  reckon  I  can  face  mother  and  Mrs.  LeGrand  and  Colonel 
Ashendyne!"  A  flush  came  into  his  cheek.  "I've  been  so 
foolish,  too,  as  to  —  as  to  pay  a  little  attention  to  Miss 


86  HAGAR 

Bedford.  But  she  is  too  sensible  a  woman  to  think  that  I 
meant  anything  seriously  -r-" 

"Did  you?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Laydon  truthfully.  "A  man  gets 
lonely,  and  he  craves  affection  and  understanding,  and  he's 
in  a  muddle  before  he  knows  it.  There  is  n't  anything  else 
there,  and  I  never  said  a  word  of  love  to  her.  Darling, 
darling!  I  never  loved  any  one  until  last  night  by  the  fire, 
and  you  looked  up  at  me  with  those  wonderful  eyes,  and  I 
looked  down,  and  our  eyes  met  and  held,  and  it  was  like  a 
fine  flame  all  over  —  and  now  I  'm  yours  till  death  —  and 
I'll  run  any  gauntlet  you  tell  me  to  run!  If  you  write  to  your 
people  to-night,  so  will  I.  I'll  write  to  Colonel  Ashendyne." 

They  left  the  gate  and  again  pursued  the  syringa  alley. 
The  sound  of  the  Christmas  bombardment  drifted  away. 
When  they  reached  the  shadow  of  the  great  bushes,  he  kissed 
her  again.  All  the  air  was  blue  and  hazy  and  the  church 
bells  were  ringing,  ringing.  "  I  have  n't  any  money,"  said 
Laydon.  "  Mother  has  a  very  little,  but  I  've  never  been  able, 
somehow,  to  lay  by.  I'll  begin  now,  though,  and  then,  as  I 
told  you,  I  expect  next  year  to  have  a  much  better  situation. 

Dr. at thinks  he  may  get  me  in  there.  It  would 

be  delightful  —  a  real  field  at  last,  the  best  of  surroundings 
and  a  tolerable  salary.  If  I  were  fortunate  there,  we  could 
marry  very  soon,  darling,  darling!  But  as  it  is —  It  is 
wretched  that  Eglantine  pays  so  little,  and  that  there  is  so 
little  recognition  here  of  ability  —  no  career  —  no  oppor 
tunity!  But  just  you  wait  and  see  —  you  one  bright  spot 
here!" 

Hagar  gazed  at  the  winding  path,  strewn  with  bronze 


HAGAR  AND   LAYDON  87 

leaves,  and  at  the  syringa  bushes,  later  to  be  laden  with 
fragrant  bloom,  and  at  the  great  white  sycamore  boughs 
against  the  pallid  blue,  and  at  the  roof  and  chimneys  of 
Eglantine,  now  apparent  behind  the  fretwork  of  trees.  The 
inner  eye  saw  the  house  within,  the  three-years-familiar 
rooms,  her  "tower  room"  —  and  all  the  human  life,  the  girls, 
the  teachers,  the  servants.  Bright  drops  came  to  her  eyes. 
"I've  been  unhappy  here,  too,  sometimes.  But  I  could  n't 
stay  three  years  in  a  place  and  not  love  something  about  it." 

"That  is  because  you  are  a  woman,"  said  the  lover.  "With 
a  man  it  is  different.  If  a  place  is  n't  right,  it  is  n't  right. 
—  If  I  had  but  five  thousand  dollars !  Then  we  might  marry 
in  a  month's  time.  As  it  is,  we'll  have  to  wait  and  wait 
and  wait — " 

"I  am  going  to  work,  too,"  said  Hagar.  "I  am  going  to 
try  somehow  to  make  money." 

He  laughed.  "You  dear  gipsy!  You  just  keep  your  beau 
tiful,  large  eyes,  and  those  dusky  warm  waves  of  hair,  and 
your  long  slim  fingers,  and  the  way  you  hold  yourself,  and 
let  ' trying  to  earn  money'  go  hang!  That's  my  part.  Too 
many  women  are  trying  to  earn  money,  anyhow — competing 
with  us.  —  You  've  got  just  to  be  your  beautiful  self,  and  keep 
on  loving  me."  He  drew  a  long  breath.  "Jove!  I  can  see  you 

now,  in  a  parlour  that's  our  own  at ,  receiving  guests  — 

famous  guests,  maybe,  after  a  while;  people  who  will  come 
distances  to  see  me!  For  I  don't  mean  to  remain  unknown. 
I  know  I've  got  ability." 

Before  they  left  the  alley  they  settled  that  both  should 
write  that  night  to  Gilead  Balm.  Laydon  found  the  idea 
distasteful  enough;  older  and  more  worldly-wise  than  the 


88  HAGAR 

other,  he  knew  that  there  would  probably  ensue  a  tempest, 
and  he  was  constitutionally  averse  to  tempests.  He  was  well 
enough  in  family,  but  no  great  things;  he  had  a  good  educa 
tion,  but  so  had  others;  he  could  give  a  good  character  — 
already  he  was  running  over  in  mind  a  list  of  clergymen, 
educators,  prominent  citizens,  and  Confederate  veterans  to 
whom  he  could  refer  Colonel  Ashendyne.  He  had  some  doubt, 
however,  as  to  whether  comparative  spotlessness  of  character 
would  have  with  Colonel  Ashendyne  the  predominant  and 
overweening  value  that  it  should  have.  Money  —  he  had  no 
means;  position  —  he  had  as  yet  an  uncertain  foothold  in  the 
world,  and  no  powerful  relatives  to  push  him.  Unbounded 
confidence  he  had  in  himself,  but  the  point  was  to  create  that 
confidence  in  Hagar's  people.  Of  course,  they  would  say  that 
she  was  too  young,  and  that  he  had  taken  advantage.  His 
skirts  were  clear  there;  both  had  truthfully  been  taken  pris 
oners,  fallen  into  an  ambuscade  of  ancient  instinct;  there 
had  n't  been  the  slightest  premeditation.  But  how  to  convey 
that  fact  to  the  old  Bourbon  up  the  river?  Laydon  had  once 
been  introduced  to  Colonel  Ashendyne  upon  one  of  the 
latter's  rare  visits  to  the  neighbouring  city  and  to  Eglantine. 
He  remembered  stingingly  the  Colonel's  calm  and  gentle 
manly  willingness  immediately  to  forget  the  existence  of  a 
teacher  of  Belles-Lettres  in  a  Young  Ladies'  School.  The 
letter  to  Gilead  Balm.  He  did  n't  want  to  write  it,  but  he  was 
going  to  —  oh!  he  was  going  to.  ...  Women  were  curiously 
selfish  about  some  things.  .  .  .  Mrs.  LeGrand,  too;  he 
thought  that  he  would  write  about  it  to  Mrs.  LeGrand.  He 
could  imagine  what  she  would  say,  and  he  did  n't  want  to 
hear  it.  He  was  in  love,  and  he  was  going  to  do  the  honour- 


HAGAR   AND   LAYDON  89 

able  thing,  of  course;  he  had  no  idea  otherwise.  But  he  cer 
tainly  entertained  the  wish  that  Hagar  could  see  how  entirely 
honourable,  as  well  as  discreet,  would  be  silence  for  a  while. 

Hagar  never  thought  of  it  in  terms  of  "  honour."  She  had 
no  adequate  idea  of  his  reluctance.  It  might  be  said  that  she 
knew  already  the  arching  of  Mrs.  LeGrand's  brows  and  the 
lightning  and  thunder  that  might  issue  from  Gilead  Balm. 
Grandfather  and  grandmother,  Aunt  Serena  and  Uncle  Bob 
looked  upon  her  as  nothing  but  a  child.  She  was  n't  a  child; 
she  was  eighteen.  She  felt  no  need  to  vindicate  herself,  nor 
to  apologize.  She  was  moving  through  what  was  still  almost 
pure  bliss,  moving  with  a  dreamlike  tolerance  of  difficul 
ties.  What  did  it  matter,  all  those  things?  They  were  so 
little.  The  air  was  wine  and  velvet,  colours  were  at  once  soft 
and  clear,  sound  was  golden.  In  the  general  transfiguration 
the  man  by  her  side  appeared  much  like  a  demigod.  Her 
wings  were  fairly  caught  and  held  by  the  honey.  It  was  natu 
ral  for  her  to  act  straightforwardly,  and  when  she  must  pro 
pose  that  she  act  so  still,  it  was  simply  a  putting  forward, 
an  unveiling  of  the  mass  of  her  nature.  She  showed  herself 
thus  and  so,  and  then  went  on  in  her  happy  dream.  Had  he 
been  able  to  make  her  realize  his  great  magnanimity  in  giv 
ing  up  his  point  of  view  to  hers,  perhaps  she  might  have 
striven  for  magnanimity,  too,  and  acquiesced  in  a  temporary 
secrecy,  perhaps  not  —  on  the  whole,  perhaps  not.  Had  she 
deeply  felt  the  secrecy  to  be  necessary,  had  they  paced  the 
earth  in  another  time  and  amid  actual  dangers,  wild  beasts 
could  not  have  torn  from  her  a  relation  of  their  case. 

But  Laydon  thought  that  she  was  thinking  in  terms  of 
"honour."  Pure  women  were  naturally  up  in  arms  at  the 


90  HAGAR 

suggestion  of  secrecy.  Their  delicate  minds  had  at  once  a 
vision  of  deception,  desertion,  all  kinds  of  horrors.  He 
acknowledged  that  men  had  given  them  reason  for  the 
vision;  they  could  not  be  blamed  if  they  saw  it  even  when 
an  entirely  honourable  and  devoted  man  was  at  their  feet. 
He  smiled  at  what  he  supposed  Hagar  thought;  his  warm 
sense  of  natural  supremacy  became  rich  and  deep;  he  felt 
like  an  Eastern  king  unfolding  a  generous  and  noble  nature 
to  some  suppliant  who  had  reason  to  doubt  those  qualities 
in  Eastern  kings  at  large  —  he  experienced  a  sumptuous, 
Oriental,  Ahasuerus-and-Esther  feeling.  Poor  little  girl!  If 
she  had  any  absurd  fear  like  that  —  He  began  to  be  eager 
to  get  to  the  letter  to  Colonel  Ashendyne.  He  could  see 
his  own  strong  black  handwriting  on  a  large  sheet  of  bond 
paper.  My  dear  Colonel  Ashendyne:  —  You  will  doubtless 
be  surprised  at  the  nature  and  contents  of  this  letter,  but  I  beg 
of  you  to  — 

The  syringa  alley  ended,  and  the  west  wing  of  the  house, 
beyond  which  stretched  the  offices,  opened  upon  them. 
Zinia,  the  mulatto  maid,  and  old  Daniel,  the  gardener, 
watched  them  from  a  doorway.  "My  Lord!"  said  Zinia. 
"Dey's  walkin'  right  far  apart,  but  I  knows  a  co'tin'  air  when 
I  sees  it!  Miss  Sarah  better  come  back  here!" 

Daniel  frowned.  He  had  been  born  on  the  Eglantine  place 
and  the  majesty  and  honour  and  glory  of  Eglantine  were  his. 
"Shet  yo'  mouf,  gal!  Don't  no  co'tin'  occur  at  Eglantine. 
Hit's  Christmas  an'  everybody  looks  good  an'  shinin'  lak  de 
angels.  Dey  two  jes'  been  listenin'  to  de  'lumination  an' 
talkin'  jography  an'  Greek!" 

As  the  two  stepped  upon  the  west  porch,  the  door  opened 


HAGAR   AND   LAYDON  91 

and  Miss  Bedford  came  out — Miss  Bedford  in  a  very  pretty 
red  hood  and  a  Connemara  cloak.  Miss  Bedford  had  a  sharp 
look.  "Where  did  you  two  find  each  other?"  she  asked;  then, 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  "Hagar!  Mrs.  Lane  has  been 
looking  for  you.  She  wants  you  to  help  her  do  up  parcels  for 
her  mission  children.  I've  been  tying  up  things  until  I  am 
tired,  and  now  I  am  going  to  walk  down  the  avenue  for  a 
breath  of  air.  Hurry  in,  dear;  she  needs  you.  —  Oh,  Mr. 
Lay  don!  there's  a  passage  in  'The  Ring  and  the  Book'  that 
I've  been  wanting  to  ask  you  to  explain  — " 

Hagar  went  in  and  tied  up  parcels  in  coloured  tissue  paper. 
The  day  went  by  as  in  a  dream.  There  was  a  Christmas 
dinner,  with  holly  on  the  table,  and  little  red  candles,  and  in 
the  afternoon  she  went  with  Mrs.  Lane  to  a  Christmas  tree 
for  poor  children  in  the  Sunday-School  room  of  a  neighbouring 
church.  The  tree  blazed  with  an  unearthly  splendour,  the 
star  in  the  top  seemed  effulgent,  the  "Ohs!"  and  "Ahs!" 
and  laughter  of  the  circling  children,  fell  into  a  rhythm  like 
sweet,  low,  distant  thunder. 

That  night  she  wrote  both  to  her  grandmother  and  her 
grandfather.  When  she  had  made  an  end  of  doing  so,  she 
kneeled  upon  the  braided  rug  before  the  fire  in  her  tower  room, 
loosed  her  dark  hair,  shook  it  around  her,  and  sat  as  in  a  tent, 
her  arms  clasping  her  knees,  her  head  bowed  upon  them. 
"  Carcassonne — Aigues-Mortes.  Carcassonne — Aigues-Mortes. 
I  can't  send  a  letter  to  father,  for  I  don't  know  where  to 
address  it.  Mother  —  mother  —  mother!  I  can't  send  a 
letter  to  you  either.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  IX 

ROMEO  AND  JULIET 

THAT  week  a  noted  actress  played  Juliet  several  evenings  in 
succession  at  the  theatre  in  the  neighbouring  town.  The 
ladies  left  adrift  at  Eglantine  read  in  the  morning  paper  a 
glowing  report  of  the  performance.  Miss  Bedford  said  she 
was  going;  she  never  missed  an  opportunity  to  see  "Romeo 
and  Juliet." 

Mr.  Laydon,  walking  in  at  that  moment  —  they  were  all 
in  the  small  book-room  —  caught  the  statement.  "Why 
should  n't  you  all  go?  I  have  seen  her  play  it  once,  but  I'd 
like  to  see  it  again."  He  laughed.  "I  feel  reckless  and  I'm 
going  to  get  up  a  theatre-party!  Mrs.  Lane,  won't  you  go?" 

Mrs.  Lane  shook  her  head.  "My  theatre  days  are  over," 
she  said  in  her  gentle,  plaintive  voice.  "Thank  you  just  the 
same,  Mr.  Laydon.  But  the  others  might  like  to  go." 

"Miss  Bedford—" 

"We  ought,"  said  Miss  Bedford,  "by  rights  to  have  Mrs. 
Lane  to  chaperon  us,  but  it's  Christmas,  is  n't  it?  —  and 
everybody's  a  little  mad!  Thank  you,  Mr.  Laydon." 

Laydon  looked  at  Francie.  "Miss  Smythe,  won't  you 
come,  too?"  He  had  made  a  rapid  calculation.  Yes,  it 
would  cost  only  so  much, — they  would  go  in  of  course  on 
the  street  car, —  and  in  order  to  ask  one  he  would  have  to 
ask  all. 

Yes,  Francie  would  go,  though  she  was  sorry  that  it  was 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET 


93 


Shakespeare,  and  just  caught  herself  in  time  from  saying  so. 
"It  will  be  lovely,"  she  said,  instead,  unemotionally. 

Miss  Bedford  supplied  the  lacking  enthusiasm.  "It  will 
be  the  treat  of  the  winter!  Oh,  the  Balcony  Scene,  and  where 
she  drinks  the  sleeping-draught,  and  the  tomb — "  She 
moved  nearer  Laydon  as  she  spoke  and  managed  to  convey 
to  him,  sotto  voce,  "You  must  n't  be  extravagant,  you  gen 
erous  man!  Don't  think  that  you  have  to  ask  these  girls  just 
because  they  are  in  the  room."  But  she  was  too  late;  Laydon 
was  already  asking. 

"Miss  Goldwell,  won't  you  come,  too,  to  see  'Romeo  and 
Juliet'?" 

If  she  did  n't  have  a  headache,  Miss  Goldwell  would  be 
glad  to,  —  "Thank  you,  Mr.  Laydon." 

"Miss  Ashendyne,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  thank  you." 

"I  will  go  at  once,"  said  Laydon,  "and  get  the  tickets." 

In  the  end,  Lily  Goldwell  went,  and  Francie  Smythe  did 
not.  Francie  developed  a  sore  throat  that  put  Mrs.  Lane  in 
terror  of  tonsillitis.  Nothing  must  go  wrong  —  nobody  must 
get  ill  while  dear  Mrs.  LeGrand  was  away!  —  it  would  be 
madness  for  Francie  to  go  out.  Where  "what  Mrs.  LeGrand 
might  think"  came  into  it,  Mrs.  Lane  was  adamant. 
Francie  sullenly  stayed  at  home.  Lily,  for  a  marvel,  didn't 
have  a  headache,  and  she  said  she  would  take  her  menthol 
pencil,  in  case  the  music  should  bring  on  one. 

The  four  walked  down  the  avenue,  beneath  the  whisper 
ing  trees.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the  stars  shone  bright, 
and  it  was  not  cold.  Mr.  Laydon  and  Miss  Bedford  went  a 
little  in  front,  and  Lily  and  Hagar  followed.  They  passed 


94  HAGAR 

through  the  big  gate  and,  walking  down  the  road  a  little  way, 
came  to  where  the  road  became  a  street,  and,  at  ten  minutes' 
interval,  a  street-car  jingled  up,  reversed,  and  jingled  back 
to  town  again. 

On  the  street-car  Miss  Bedford  and  Mr.  Laydon  were 
again  together,  and  Lily  and  Hagar.  Between  the  two  pairs 
stretched  a  row  of  men,  several  with  the  evening  newspaper. 
It  was  too  warm  in  the  car,  and  Lily,  murmuring  something, 
took  out  her  menthol  pencil.  Hagar  studied  the  score  of 
occupants,  and  the  row  of  advertisements,  and  the  dark 
night  without  the  windows.  The  man  next  her  had  a  news 
paper,  and  now  he  began  to  talk  to  an  older  man  beside 
him. 

"The  country's  doing  pretty  well,  seems  to  me." 

The  other  grunted.  "Is  n't  anything  doing  pretty  well. 
I'm  getting  to  be  a  Populist." 

"Oh,  go  away!  Are  you  going  to  the  World's  Fair?" 

"No.  There's  going  to  be  the  biggest  panic  yet  in  this 
country  about  one  year  from  now." 

"  Oh,  cheer  up !  You  Ve  been  living  on  Homestead." 

"If  I  have,  it's  poor  living." 

Across  the  aisle  a  woman  was  talking  about  the  famine  in 
Russia.  "We  are  going  to  try  to  get  up  a  bazaar  and  make  a 
little  money  to  send  to  get  food  with.  Tolstoy  — " 

The  horse-car  jingled,  jingled  through  the  night.  All  the 
windows  were  down;  it  grew  hot  and  close  and  crowded. 
The  black  night  without  pressed  alongside,  peered  through 
the  clouded  glass.  Within  were  a  muddy  glare  and  swaying 
and  the  mingled  breath  of  people. 

Lily  sighed.   "Don't  you  ever  wish  for  just  a  clear  No- 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET  95 

thing?  No  pain,  no  feeling,  no  people,  no  light,  no  sound, 
no  anything?" 

The  street-car  turned  a  corner  and  swayed  and  jingled 
into  a  lighted,  business  street,  where  were  Christmas  win 
dows  and  upon  the  pavement  a  Christmas  throng.  A  drug 
store  —  a  wine  and  liquor  store — a  grocery  —  a  clothing 
store  —  a  wine  and  liquor  store  —  a  drug  store;  amber  and 
crimson,  green  and  blue,  broken  and  restless  arrived  the 
lights  through  the  filmy  glass.  Laughter  and  voices  of  the 
crowd  came  with  a  distant  humming,  through  which  clanged 
the  street-car  bell.  The  car  stopped  for  passengers,  then 
creaked  on  again.  A  workman  entered,  stood  for  a  couple  of 
minutes,  touching  Hagar's  skirt,  then,  a  man  opposite  rising 
and  leaving  the  car,  sank  into  the  vacant  place.  Hagar's  eyes 
swept  him  dreamily;  then,  she  knew  not  why,  she  fell  to  ob 
serving  him  with  a  puzzled,  stealthy  gaze.  He  was  certainly 
young,  and  yet  he  did  not  look  so.  The  lower  part  of  his  face 
was  covered  by  a  short  soft,  dark  beard;  he  had  a  battered 
slouch  hat  pulled  down  low;  the  eyes  beneath  were  sombre 
and  the  face  lined.  There  was  a  dinner  pail  at  his  feet.  He, 
too,  had  an  evening  paper;  Hagar  saw  the  headlines  of  the 
piece  he  was  reading:  "HOMESTEAD";  and  underneath, 
"STRONG  HAND  OF  THE  LAW."  Outside,  topaz  and 
ruby  and  emerald  drifted  by  the  windows  of  a  wine  and 
liquor  store. 

She  knit  her  brows.  Some  current  in  the  shoreless  sea  of 
mind  had  been  started,  but  she  could  not  trace  its  begin 
ning  nor  where  it  led.  Another  minute  and  the  car  stopped 
before  the  theatre. 

Within,  Laydon  manoeuvred,  and  the  end  was  that  if  he 


96  HAGAR 

had  Miss  Bedford  upon  his  right,  yet  he  had  Hagar  upon  his 
left.  The  orchestra  had  not  yet  begun;  the  house  was  dim, 
people  entering,  those  seated  having  to  stand  up  to  let  the 
others  pass.  Once,  when  this  happened,  he  leaned  toward 
her  until  their  shoulders  touched,  until  his  breath  was  upon 
her  cheek.  He  dared  so  much  as  to  whisper,  "If  only  we 
were  here,  just  you  and  I,  together!" 

Every  one  was  seated  now,  and  she  looked  at  the  people 
with  their  festal,  Christmas  air.  There  was  a  girl  in  a  box 
who  was  like  Sylvie,  and  nearer  yet  a  grey-haired  gentleman 
with  a  certain  vague  resemblance  to  her  grandfather.  Her 
thought  flashed  across  the  dark  country,  up  the  winding, 
amber-hued  river  to  Gilead  Balm.  They  would  have  had  her 
letter  yesterday.  The  shimmer  and  murmur  of  the  filled 
theatre  were  all  about  her,  but  so  was  Gilead  Balm  —  she 
tried  to  hear  what  they  would  be  saying  there  to-night.  The 
music  began,  and  in  a  moment  she  was  in  a  colourful  dream. 
The  curtain  went  up,  and  here  was  the  hot,  sunshiny  street 
of  Verona  and  all  the  heady  wine  of  youth  and  love. 

When  the  curtain  fell  and  the  lights  brightened,  Miss  Bed 
ford,  after  frantically  applauding,  claimed  Laydon  for  her 
own.  She  had  raptures  to  impart,  criticisms  to  exchange, 
knowledge  to  imbibe.  Minutes  passed  ere,  during  a  momen 
tary  lapse  into  her  programme,  Laydon  could  bend  toward 
the  lady  on  his  left.  Did  she  like  it?  What  did  she  think  of 
Juliet?  —  What  did  she  think  of  Romeo? — Was  it  not  well- 
staged  ? 

Hagar  did  not  know  whether  it  were  well  staged  or  not. 
She  was  eighteen  years  old;  she  had  been  very  seldom  to  the 
theatre;  she  was  moving  through  a  dreamy  paradise.  She 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET  97 

wanted  just  to  sit  still  and  bring  it  all  back  before  the  inner 
eye.  Despite  the  fact  that  he  was  her  lover,  she  was  not  sorry 
when  Laydon  must  turn  to  the  lady  on  his  right.  When  Lily 
spoke  to  her,  she  said,  "Don't  let's  talk.  Let's  sit  still  and 
see  it  all  again."  Lily  agreed.  She  was  no  chatterbox  herself. 
The  music  played;  the  lights  in  the  house  were  lowered;  up, 
slowly,  gently,  went  the  curtain;  here  was  the  orchard  of  the 
Capulets. 

The  great  concave  of  the  theatre  was  dim.  Laydon's 
hand  sought  Hagar's,  found  it  in  the  semi-darkness,  held  it 
throughout  the  act.  She  acquiesced;  and  yet  —  and  yet  — 
She  did  not  wish  him  to  fondle  her  hand,  nor  yet,  as  once  or 
twice  he  did,  to  whisper  to  her.  She  wished  to  listen,  listen. 
She  was  in  Verona,  not  here. 

The  act  closed.  The  lights  went  up,  Laydon  softly  with 
drew  his  hand.  He  applauded  loudly,  all  the  house  applauded. 
Hagar  hated  the  clapping,  not  experienced  enough  to  know 
how  breath-of-life  it  was  to  the  people  behind  the  curtain. 
Already  the  curtain  was  rising  for  Juliet  to  come  forth  and 
bow,  and  then  for  Juliet  to  bring  forth  Romeo,  and  both  to 
bow.  Had  she  known,  she  would  have  applauded,  too;  she 
was  a  kindly  child.  The  curtain  was  down  now,  the  house 
rustling.  All  around  was  talking;  people  seemed  never  to 
wish  to  be  quiet.  Laydon  was  talking,  too,  answering  Miss 
Bedford's  artful-artless  queries,  embarking  on  a  commentary 
upon  act  and  actors.  He  talked  with  a  conscious  brilliance 
as  became  a  professor  of  Belles-Lettres,  more  especially  for 
Hagar's  delight,  but  aware  also  that  the  people  directly  in 
front  and  behind  were  listening.  Was  Hagar  delighted? 
Very  slowly  and  insidiously,  like  a  slender  serpent  stealing 


98  HAGAR 

into  some  Happy  Valley,  there  came  into  her  heart  a  dis 
taste  for  commentaries.  As  the  valley  might  be  ignorant  of 
the  serpent,  so  neither  did  she  know  what  was  the  matter; 
she  was  only  not  so  mystically  happy  as  she  had  been  before. 

The  orchestra  came  back,  there  was  a  murmur  of  expecta 
tion,  Laydon  ceased  to  discourse  of  Bandello,  and  of  Dante's 
reference  to  Montague  and  Capulet.  Lily,  on  the  other  side 
of  Hagar,  complained  of  the  heat  and  the  music.  "I  like 
stringed  instruments,  but  those  great  brass  horns  make  the 
back  of  my  head  hurt  so." 

Hagar  touched  her  cold,  little  hand.  "Poor  Lily!  I  wish 
you  did  n't  feel  badly  all  the  time!  I  wish  you  liked  the 
horns." 

The  curtain  rose,  the  play  rolled  on.  Mercutio  was  slain, 
—  Mercutio  and  Tybalt,  —  Romeo  was  banished.  The  scene 
changed,  and  here  was  the  great  window  of  Juliet's  room  — 
the  rope  ladder  —  the  envious  East. 

"  Night's  candles  are  burned  out  and  jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain-tops  ; 
I  must  be  gone  and  live,  or  stay  and  die  —  " 

Hagar  sat,  bent  forward,  her  eyes  dark  and  wide,  the  wine- 
red  in  her  cheeks.  When  the  curtain  went  down  she  did  not 
move;  Laydon,  under  cover  of  the  loud  applause,  spoke  to 
her  twice  before  she  attended.  Her  eyes  came  back  from  a 
long  way  off,  her  mind  turned  with  difficulty.  "Yes?  What 
is  it?"  Laydon  was  easily  aggrieved.  "You  are  thinking 
more  of  this  wretched  play,"  he  whispered,  "than  you  are 
of  me!" 

On  rolled  the  swift  events,  gorgeous  and  swift  as  shadows. 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET  99 

The  curtain  fell,  the  curtain  rose.  The  potion  was  drunk  — 
the  wailing  was  made  —  Balthasar  rode  to  warn  Romeo. 
There  came  the  last  act:  the  poison  —  County  Paris  —  the 

Tomb  — 

"  Here  will  I  set  up  my  everlasting  rest  —  " 

It  was  over.  .  .  .  She  helped  Lily  with  her  red  evening  cloak, 
she  found  Miss  Bedford's  striped  silk  bag  that  Laydon  could 
not  find;  they  all  passed  out  of  the  house  of  enchantments. 
Here  was  the  night,  and  the  night  wind,  and  broken  lights  and 
carriages,  and  a  clamour  of  voices,  and  at  last  the  clanging 
street-car  with  a  great  freight  of  talking  people.  She  wanted 
to  sit  still  and  dream  it  over  —  and  fortunately  Laydon  was 
again  occupied  with  Miss  Bedford. 

"You  liked  it,  didn't  you?"  asked  Lily.  "I  think  that 
you  like  things  that  you  imagine  better  than  you  like  things 
that  you  do." 

Hagar  looked  at  her  with  eyes  that  were  yet  wide  and 
fixed.  "I  don't  know.  If  you  could  be  and  do  all  that  you 
can  imagine  —  but  you  can't  —  you  can't — "she  smiled 
and  rubbed  her  hand  across  her  eyes  —  "and  it's  a  tragedy." 

When  they  left  the  street-car  and  walked  toward  the  Eg 
lantine  gates,  it  was  drawing  toward  midnight.  Laydon  and 
Hagar  now  moved  side  by  side  through  the  darkness.  Lily 

—  who  said  that  her  head  had  ached  very  little,  thank  you! 

—  exchanged  comments  on  the  play  with  Miss  Bedford. 
Laydon  held  the  gate  open;  then,  closing  it,  fell  a  few  feet 

behind  with  Hagar.   "You  enjoyed  it?" 

"Oh  —  " 

He  was  again  in  love.  "The  plays  we'll  see  together,  dar 
ling,  darling!  'Two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought  — '" 


ioo  HAGAR 

"There  is  no  need  to  walk  so  fast,"  said  Miss  Bedford. 
"Oh,  Mr.  Laydon,  a  briar  has  caught  my  skirt —  Will  you 
—  ?  Oh,  thank  you!" 

The  house  showed  before  them.  "The  parlour  windows 
are  lighted,"  said  Lily.  "Mrs.  Lane  must  have  com 
pany." 

Mrs.  Lane  did  have  company.  She  herself  opened  the  front 
door  to  them.  Mrs.  Lane's  eyes  were  red,  and  she  looked 
frightened.  "Wait,"  she  said,  and  got  between  the  little 
group  and  the  parlour  door.  "Lily,  you  had  best  go  straight 
upstairs,  my  dear!  Miss  Bedford,  will  you  please  wait  here 
with  me  just  a  minute?  Mr.  Laydon,  Mrs.  LeGrand  says 
will  you  come  into  the  parlour?  Hagar,  you  are  to  go,  too. 
Your  grandfather  is  here." 

Colonel  Ashendyne  stood  between  the  table  and  the  fire. 
Mrs.  LeGrand  was  seated  upon  the  sofa,  which  meant  that 
she  sat  in  state.  Mrs.  Lane,  who  came  presently  stealing  in 
again,  sat  back  from  the  centre  in  a  meek,  small  chair,  and  at 
intervals  wiped  her  eyes.  The  culprits  stood. 

Colonel  Argall  Ashendyne  never  lacked  words  with  which 
to  express  his  meaning  —  words  that  bit.  Now  his  well-cut 
lips  opened,  and  out  there  came  like  a  scimitar  his  part  of 
the  ensuing  conversation. 

"Hagar,  your  letter  was  read  yesterday  evening.  I  imme 
diately  telegraphed  to  Mrs.  LeGrand  at  Idlewood,  and  she 
obligingly  took  this  morning's  boat.  I  myself  came  down  on 
the  afternoon  train,  and  got  here  two  hours  ago.  Now,  sir — " 
he  turned  on  Laydon  —  "what  have  you  got  to  say  for  your 
self?" 

"I  —  I — "  began  Laydon.   He  drew  a  breath  and  his  spine 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET 


101 


stiffened.  "  I  have  to  say,  sir,  that  I  lo've-your  granddaughter, 
and  that  I  have  asked  her  to  marry  me." 

Mrs.  LeGrand,  while  the  colonel's  hawk  eye  dwelt  wither- 
ingly,  spoke  from  the  sofa.  "I  have  no  words,  Mr.  Laydon, 
in  which  to  express  my  disapproval  of  your  action,  or  my 
disappointment  in  one  whom  I  had  supposed  a  gentleman. 
In  my  absence  you  have  chosen  to  abuse  my  confidence  and 
to  do  a  most  dishonourable  and  ungentlemanly  thing  —  a 
thing  which,  were  it  known,  might  easily  bring  disrepute 
upon  Eglantine.  You  will  understand,  of  course,  that  it  ter 
minates  your  connection  with  this  school — " 

"Mrs.  LeGrand,"  said  Laydon,  "I  have  done  nothing  dis 
honourable." 

"You  have  taken  advantage  of  my  absence,  sir,  to  make 
love  to  one  of  my  pupils  — " 

"To  an  inexperienced  child,  sir,"  said  the  Colonel;  —  "too 
young  to  know  better  or  to  tell  pinchbeck  when  she  sees  it! 
You  should  be  caned." 

"Colonel  Ashendyne,  if  you  were  a  younger  man  — " 

"Bah!"  said  the  Colonel.  "I  am  younger  now  and  more 
real  than  you!  —  Hagar!" 

"Yes,  grandfather." 

"Come  here!" 

Hagar  came.  The  Colonel  laid  his  hands  upon  her  shoul 
ders,  a  little  roughly,  but  not  too  roughly.  The  two  looked 
each  other  in  the  eyes.  He  was  tall  and  she  but  of  medium 
height,  she  was  young  and  he  was  her  elder,  he  was  ancestor 
and  she  descendant,  he  was  her  supporter  and  she  his  de 
pendant,  he  was  grandfather  and  she  was  grandchild.  Gilead 
Balm  had  always  inculcated  reverence  for  dominant  kin  and 


102  HAGAR 

family  "authority.  It  had  been  Gilead  Balm's  grievance,  long 
ago,  against  her  mother  that  she  recognized  that  so  poorly. .  .  . 
But  Hagar  had  always  seemed  to  recognize  it.  "Gipsy," 
said  the  Colonel  now,  "I  am  not  going  to  be  hard  upon  you. 
It's  the  nature  of  the  young  to  be  foolish,  and  a  young  girl 
may  be  pardoned  anything  short  of  the  irrecoverable.  All 
that  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  see  that  you  have  been  very  foolish 
and  to  say  as  much  to  this  —  this  gentleman.  Simply  turn 
round  and  say  to  him  'Mr. — '  What's  his  name? — Lay- 
ton?" 

"I  wrote  to  you  day  before  yesterday,  Colonel  Ashen- 
dyne,"  said  Lay  don.  "You  saw  my  name  there — " 

"I  never  got  your  letter,  sir!  I  got  hers. —  Hagar!  say 
after  me  to  this  gentleman,  'Sir,  I  was  mistaken  in  my  senti 
ment  toward  you,  and  I  here  and  now  release  you  from  any 
fancied  engagement  between  us.'  —  Say  it!" 

As  he  spoke,  he  wheeled  her  so  that  she  faced  Laydon.  She 
stood,  a  scarlet  in  her  checks,  her  eyes  dark,  deep,  and  angry. 
"Hagar!"  cried  Laydon,  maddened,  too,  "are  you  going  to 
say  that?" 

"No,"  answered  Hagar.  "No,  I  am  not  going  to  say  it!  I 
have  done  nothing  wrong  nor  underhand,  and  neither  have 
you !  Mrs.  LeGrand  knew  that  you  were  coming  here,  in  the 
evening,  to  read  to  us.  Why  should  n't  you  come?  Well,  one 
evening  you  were  reading  and  I  was  listening,  and  I  was  not 
thinking  of  you  and  you  were  not  thinking  of  me.  And  then, 
suddenly,  something  —  Love  —  came  into  this  room  and 
took  us  prisoner.  We  did  not  ask  him  here,  we  did  not  know 
anything.  .  .  .  But  when  it  happened  we  knew  it,  and  next 
morning,  out  in  the  open  air,  we  told  each  other  about  it. 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET  103 

Nothing  could  have  kept  us  from  doing  that,  and  nothing 
had  a  right  to  keep  us  from  it!  Nothing!  —  And  that  very 
night  I  wrote  to  you,  grandfather — and  he  wrote.  ...  If  I 
am  mistaken  I  am  mistaken,  but  I  will  find  it  out  for  myself ! " 
She  twisted  herself  in  the  Colonel's  grasp  until  she  faced  him. 
"You  say  that  you  are  real  —  Well,  I  am  real  too!  I  am  as 
real  as  you  are!" 

The  Colonel's  fine,  bony  hands  closed  upon  her  shoulders 
until  she  caught  her  breath  with  the  pain.  The  water  rushed 
to  her  eyes,  but  she  kept  it  from  over-brimming.  "Don't 
cry!"  said  a  voice  within  her.  "Whatever  you  do,  don't 
cry!"  It  was  like  her  mother's  voice,  and  she  answered  in 
stantly.  Colonel  Ashendyne,  his  lips  white  beneath  his  grey 
mustache,  shook  her  violently,  so  violently  that,  pushed 
from  her  footing,  she  stumbled  and  sank  to  her  knee. 

Laydon  came  up  with  clenched  fists  and  the  colour  gone 
from  his  face.  "Let  her  go,  damn  you!  — " 

Mrs.  Lane  uttered  a  faint  cry  and  Mrs.  LeGrand  rose  from 
the  sofa. 


CHAPTER  X 

GILEAD    BALM 

THE  March  winds  shook  the  rusty  cedars  and  tossed  the  pink 
peach  branches,  and  carried  a  fleet  of  clouds  swiftly  overhead 
through  the  blue  aerial  sea.  They  rattled  the  windows  of 
Gilead  Balm  and  bent  the  chimney  smoke  aslant  like  stream 
ers.  The  winds  were  rough  but  not  cold.  Now  and  again  they 
sank  into  the  sunniest  of  calms,  little  periods  of  stillness, 
small  doldrums  punctuating  the  stormiest  sentences.  Then 
with  a  whistle,  shriller  and  shriller,  they  mounted  again,  tre 
mendously  exhilarated,  sweeping  earth  and  sky. 

On  the  ridge  back  of  Gilead  Balm  the  buds  of  the  cucum 
ber  tree  were  swelling,  the  grass  beneath  was  growing  green, 
the  ants  were  out  in  the  sunshine.  Up  in  the  branches  a  blue 
bird  was  exploring  building-sites. 

Hagar  came  wandering  over  the  ridge.  The  wind  wrapped 
her  old  brown  dress  about  her  limbs  and  blew  her  dark  hair 
into  locks  and  tendrils.  Luna  followed  her,  but  Luna  in  no 
frolicsome  mood.  Luna  was  old,  old,  and  to-day  dispirited 
because  Captain  Bob  had  gone  to  a  meeting  of  Democrats 
in  the  neighbouring  town  and  had  left  her  behind.  Depres 
sion  was  writ  in  every  line  of  Luna's  body,  and  an  old,  expe 
rienced  weariness  and  disillusionment  in  the  eye  with  which 
she  looked  askance  at  a  brand-new  white  butterfly  on  a 
brand-new  dandelion. 


GILEAD   BALM 


105 


Hagar  stood  with  her  back  to  the  cucumber  tree  and  sur 
veyed  the  scene.  The  hills,  scurried  over  by  the  shadows  of 
the  driven  clouds,  the  river  —  the  river  winding  down  to  the 
sea,  and  the  ditch  where  used  to  be  the  canal;  and  away, 
away,  the  white  plume  of  a  passenger  train.  She  was  mad  for 
travel,  for  wandering,  for  the  open  road;  all  the  world  sung 
to  her  as  with  a  thousand  tongues  in  the  books  she  read. 
Pictures,  cathedrals,  statues,  cities,  snow  on  mountains,  the 
ocean,  deserts,  torrid  lands,  France,  Spain,  Italy,  England  — 
oh,  to  go,  to  go!  She  would  have  liked  to  fling  herself  on  the 
blowing  wind  and  go  with  it  over  land  and  sea. 

She  looked  with  hot,  sombre  eyes  at  Gilead  Balm.  It  was 
the  home  she  had  always  known  and  she  loved  it;  it  was 
home,  —  yes,  it  was  home;  but  it  was  not  so  pleasant  at 
home  just  now.  March  —  and  the  Colonel  had  withdrawn 
her  from  Eglantine,  ordered  her  home,  the  first  of  January! 
January,  February,  a  part  of  March  —  and  her  grandfather 
still  eaten  with  a  cold  anger  every  time  he  looked  at  her, 
and  her  grandmother,  outraged  at  her  suddenly  manifested 
likeness  to  Maria  and  Maria's  "  ways,"  almost  as  bad!  Aunt 
Serena  gave  her  no  sympathy;  Aunt  Serena  had  become 
almost  violent  on  the  subject.  If  you  were  going  to  rebel  and 
disobey,  Aunt  Serena  told  her,  if  you  were  going  to  be  for 
ward  and  almost  fast,  and  rebel  and  disobey,  you  need  n't 
look  for  any  sympathy  from  her!  Colonel  Ashendyne  had 
been  explicit  enough  back  in  January.  "  When  you  send  about 
his  business  that  second-rate  person  you  Ve  chosen  to  entangle 
yourself  with,  then  and  not  till  then  will  you  be  *  Gipsy* 
again  to  me!" 

Hagar  put  out  her  arms  to  the  wind.   "I  want  to  go  away! 


106  HAGAR 

I  want  to  go  away !   I  'm  tired  of  it  all  —  tired  of   living 
here—" 

The  wind  blew  past  her  with  its  long  cry;  then  it  suddenly 
sank,  and  there  came  almost  a  half-hour  of  bright  calm,  warm 
stillness,  astral  gold.  Hagar  sat  down  between  the  roots  of 
the  cucumber  tree  and  took  her  head  within  her  arms.  By 
degrees,  in  the  sunshine,  emotion  subsided;  she  began  to  think 
and  dream.  Her  mind  sent  the  shuttle  far  and  fast,  it  touched 
here  and  touched  there,  and  in  the  course  of  its  weaving  it 
touched  Eglantine,  touched  and  quit  and  touched  again. 
Laydon  was  still  at  Eglantine.  He  had  been  a  very  satisfac 
tory  Professor  of  Belles-Lettres;  Mrs.  LeGrand  really  did  not 
know  where,  in  mid-season,  to  find  such  another.  He  had 
behaved  wretchedly,  but  the  mischief  was  done,  and  there 
was  —  on  consideration  —  no  need  to  tell  the  world  about  it, 
no  especial  need,  indeed,  of  proclaiming  it  at  Eglantine  or  to 
Eglantine  patrons  at  large.  He  was  not  —  Mrs.  LeGrand 
did  him  that  justice  —  he  was  not  at  all  a  "fast"  man  or 
likely  to  give  further  trouble  upon  this  line.  And  he  was  a 
good  teacher,  a  good  talker,  in  demand  for  lectures  on  cul 
tural  subjects  before  local  literary  societies,  popular  and  pleas 
ing,  a  creditable  figure  among  the  Eglantine  faculty.  Much 
of  this  matter  was  probably  Hagar's  fault.  She  had  made 
eyes  at  him,  little  fool  I  When  the  Colonel  declared  his 
determination,  —  with  no  reflections  on  Eglantine,  my  dear 
friend! — to  bring  to  an  end  his  granddaughter's  formal  ed- 
cation,  and  to  take  her  back  to  Gilead  Balm  where  this 
infatuation  would  soon  disappear,  —  Mrs.  LeGrand  saw  day 
light.  She  had  an  interview  with  Colonel  Ashendyne.  He 
was  profoundly  contemptuous  of  what  Mr.  Laydon  did  for  a 


GILEAD   BALM  107 

living  or  where  he  did  it,  of  whom  he  taught  or  what  he 
taught,  so  long  as  there  was  distance  between  him  and  an 
Ashendyne.  "You  know  —  you  know,  my  dear  friend,  that 
I  have  always  had  in  mind  Ralph  Coltsworth!"  She  had  an 
interview  —  concert  pitch  —  with  Lay  don.  She  had  a  smooth, 
quiet  talk  with  her  teachers.  She  mentioned  casually,  to  one 
after  another  of  the  girls,  that  Mrs.  Ashendyne  at  Gilead 
Balm  was  not  as  young  as  she  had  been,  nor  as  strong,  and 
that  Colonel  Ashendyne  thought  that  Hagar  should  be  at 
home  with  her  grandmother.  She,  Mrs.  LeGrand,  regretted 
it,  but  every  girl's  duty  to  her  family  was  paramount.  They 
would  miss  Hagar  sadly,  —  she  was  a  dear  girl  and  a  clever 
girl,  —  but  it  seemed  right  that  she  should  go.  Hagar  went 
and  Laydon  stayed,  and  without  a  word  from  any  principal 
in  the  affair,  every  girl  at  Eglantine  knew  that  Mr.  Laydon 
had  kissed  Hagar,  and  that  Hagar  had  said  that  she  would 
love  him  forever,  and  that  Colonel  Ashendyne  was  very 
angry,  and  was  probably  keeping  Hagar  on  bread  and  water 
at  that  instant,  and  that  it  was  all  very  romantic.  .  .  .  And 
then  at  Eglantine  examinations  came  on,  and  dreams  of 
Easter  holiday,  and  after  that  of  Commencement,  and  Mr. 
Laydon  taught  with  an  entire  correctness  and  an  impassive 
attitude  toward  all  young  ladies;  and  Miss  Bedford,  who  had 
been  very  bitter  at  first  and  had  said  things,  grew  amiable 
again  and  reopened  her  Browning.  The  ripple  smoothed  out 
as  all  things  smoothed  out  at  Eglantine.  The  place  resumed 
its  pristine  "sweetness."  It  was  believed  among  the  girls  that 
Mr.  Laydon  and  Hagar  "corresponded,"  but  it  was  not  cer 
tainly  known.  Mr.  Laydon  wrapped  himself  in  dignity  as  in  a 
mantle.  As  for  Hagar,  she  had  always  been  rather  far  away. 


io8  HAGAR 

Up  on  the  ridge  to-day,  Hagar's  mind  dwelt  somewhat  on 
Eglantine,  but  not  overmuch.  It  was  not  precisely  Eglan 
tine  that  she  was  missing.  Was  she  missing  Laydon?  Cer 
tainly,  at  this  period,  she  would  have  answered  that  she  was 
—  though,  to  be  perfectly  truthful,  she  might  have  added, 
"But  I  do  not  think  of  that  all  the  time  —  not  nearly  all  the 
time."  She  was  unhappy,  and  on  occasions  her  fancy  brooded 
over  that  night  in  the  Eglantine  parlour  when  he  read  of  love, 
and  the  flames  became  jewelled  and  alive,  and  she  saw  the 
turret  on  the  plain,  "by  the  caper  overrooted,  by  the  gourd 
overscored,"  and  suddenly  a  warmth  and  light  wrapped 
them  both.  The  warmth  and  light  certainly  still  dwelt  over 
that  scene  and  that  moment.  To  a  lesser  extent  it  abided 
over  and  around  the  next  morning,  the  west  porch,  the  sy- 
ringa  alley.  Very  strangely,  as  she  was  dimly  aware,  it 
stretched  only  thinly  over  the  following  days,  over  even  the 
night  of  "Romeo  and  Juliet."  There  was  there  a  mixed  and 
wavering  light,  changing,  for  the  hour  that  immediately  fol 
lowed, —  the  hour  when  she  faced  her  grandfather,  and  he 
spoke  with  knives  as  he  was  able  to  do,  when  he  laid  his  hands 
upon  her  and  said  untrue  and  unjust  things  to  Laydon,  —  into 
an  angry  glow.  That  hour  was  bright  and  hot  like  a  ruby. 
How  much  was  love,  and  how  much  outraged  pride  and  a 
burning  sense  of  wrong,  she  was  not  skilled  to  know,  nor 
how  much  was  actual  chivalric  defence  of  her  partner  in  ini 
quity.  . . .  The  parting  interview,  when  she  and  Laydon,  hav 
ing  stood  upon  their  rights,  obtained  a  strange  half-hour  in 
the  Eglantine  parlour  —  strange  and  stiff,  with  "Of  course,  if 
I  love  you,  I'll  be  faithful,"  repeated  on  her  part  some  five 
times,  with,  on  his  part,  Byronic  fervour,  volcanic  utterances. 


GILEAD   BALM  109 

Had  he  not  gone  over  them  to  himself  afterwards,  in  his 
homely,  cheerfully  commonplace  room  in  the  brown  cottage 
outside  the  Eglantine  grounds?  They  had  been  fine;  from 
the  point  of  view  of  Belles-Lettres  they  could  not  have  been 
bettered.  He  felt  a  glow  as  he  recognized  that  fact,  followed 
by  a  mental  shot  at  the  great  Seat  of  Learning  where  he 
wished  to  be.  "By  George!  that's  the  place  I'm  fitted  for! 
The  man  they've  got  isn't  in  the  same  class — "  .  . .  The 
parting  interview —  to  the  girl  on  the  ridge  a  cloud  seemed 
to  hang  over  that,  a  cloud  that  was  here  and  there  rose- 
flushed,  but  just  as  often  fading  into  grey.  Hagar  drove  her 
thoughts  back  to  the  first  evening  and  the  jewelled  fire;  that 
was  a  clear,  fair  memory,  innocent,  rich  and  sincere.  The 
others  had,  so  strangely,  a  certain  pain  and  dulness. 

She  had  a  sturdy  power  of  reaction  against  the  melancholy 
and  the  painful,  and  as  to-day  she  could  not,  somehow,  fix 
her  mind  unswervingly  upon  the  one  clear  hour,  and  the 
others  perplexed  and  hurt,  her  mind  at  last  turned  with  de 
cision  from  any  contemplation  whatsoever  of  the  round  of 
events  which  lay  behind  her  presence  here,  in  March,  upon 
the  ridge  behind  Gilead  Balm.  Rising,  she  left  the  cucum 
ber  tree  and  walked  along  the  crest  of  the  ridge.  The  wind 
was  not  blowing  now,  the  sunshine  was  very  golden,  the  little 
leaves  were  springing.  She  crossed  the  ribbon-like  plateau  to 
its  northern  edge,  and  stood,  looking  down  that  slope.  It 
was  somewhat  heavily  wooded,  and  in  shadow.  It  fell  steeply 
to  a  handsbreadth  of  sward,  a  purling  streamlet,  sunken  boul 
ders,  a  wide  thicket  and  a  wood  beyond.  Hagar,  leaning 
against  a  young  beech,  gazed  down  the  shadowed  stillness. 
Her  eyebrows  lifted  at  their  inner  ends,  lines  came  into  her 


i  io  HAGAR 

forehead,  wistful  markings  about  her  lips.  Sometimes  when 
she  knew  that  she  was  quite  alone  she  spoke  aloud  to  her  self. 
She  did  this  now.  "I  have  n't  been  here  since  that  day  it 
happened.  .  .  .  Six  years  ...  I  wonder  if  he  ran  away  again, 
or  if  he  stayed  there  to  the  end.  I  wonder  where  he  is  now. 
Six  years  .  .  ." 

The  wind  rose  and  blew  fiercely,  rattling  in  the  thicket  and 
bending  every  tree;  then  it  sank  again.  Hagar  leaned  against 
the  trunk  of  the  beech  and  thought  and  thought.  As  a  child 
she  had  been  speculative,  everywhere  and  all  the  time;  with 
youth  had  come  dreams  and  imaginations,  pushing  the  older 
intense  querying  aside.  Now  of  a  sudden  a  leaf  was  turned. 
She  dreamed  and  imagined  still,  but  the  thinker  within  her 
rose  a  step,  gained  a  foot  on  the  infinite,  mounting  stair. 
Hagar  began  to  brood  upon  the  state  of  the  world.  "  Black 
and  white  stripes  like  a  zebra.  .  .  .  How  petty  to  clothe  a  man 
—  a  boy  he  was  then  —  like  that,  mark  him  and  brand  him, 
until  through  life  he  sees  himself  striped  black  and  white  like 
a  zebra  —  on  his  dying  bed,  maybe,  sees  himself  like  that! 
Vindictive.  And  the  world  sees  him,  too,  like  that,  grotesque 
and  mean  and  awful,  and  it  cannot  cleanse  his  image  in  its 
mind.  It  is  foolish." 

The  wind  roared  again  up  and  down  the  ridge.  Hagar  shiv 
ered  and  began  to  move  toward  the  warmer  side;  then  halted, 
turned,  and  came  back  to  the  beech.  "I'll  not  go  away  un 
til  the  sun  comes  from  under  that  cloud  and  the  wind  drops. 
It's  like  leaving  him  alone  in  the  thicket  down  there,  in 
the  cold  and  shadow."  She  waited  until  the  sun  came  out 
and  the  wind  dropped,  then  took  her  hand  from  the  beech 
tree  and  went  away.  Leaving  the  ridge,  she  came  to  the 


GILEAD   BALM  in 

overseer's  house,  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went  and  knocked 
at  the  kitchen  door. 

"Come  in!"  called  Mrs.  Green,  who  was  sitting  by  the 
kitchen  table,  in  the  patch  of  sunlight  before  the  window, 
sewing  together  strips  of  bright  cloth  and  winding  them  into 
balls  for  a  rag  carpet.  "You,  Hagar?  Come  right  in!  Well, 
March  is  surely  going  out  like  a  lion!" 

"It's  so  windy  that  the  clouds  are  running  like  sheep," 
said  Hagar.  She  took  a  small,  split-bottom  rocking-chair, 
drew  it  near  Mrs.  Green,  and  began  to  wind  carpet  rags. 
"Red  and  blue  and  grey  —  it's  going  to  be  a  beautiful 
carpet!  Have  you  heard  from  Thomasine?" 

Mrs.  Green  rose  and  took  a  letter  from  behind  the  clock. 
"Read  it.  She's  been  to  a  theatre  and  the  Eden  Musee  and 
Brooklyn  Bridge,  and  she's  going  to  visit  the  Statue  of 
Liberty." 

Hagar  read  five  pages  of  lined  notepaper,  all  covered  with 
Thomasine 's  pretty,  precise  writing.  "She's  having  a  good 
time.  ...  I  wish  I  were  there,  too.  I've  never  seen  New 
York." 

"Never  mind!  You  will  one  day,"  said  Mrs.  Green.  "Yes, 
Thomasine 's  having  a  good  time.  Jim  was  born  generous." 

"  Is  she  really  going  to  work  if  he  can  get  her  a  place?" 

"Yes,  child,  she  is.  Times  seems  to  me  to  be  gettin' 
harder  right  along  instead  of  easier.  Girls  have  got  to  go 
out  in  the  world  and  work  nowadays,  just  the  same  as 
boys.  I  don't  know  as  it  will  hurt  them;  anyway,  they  've 
got  to  do  it.  Food  an'  clothes  don't  ask  which  sect  you 
belong  to." 

"Thomasine  ought  to  have  gone  to  school.  Girls  can  go  to 


112  HAGAR 

college  now,  and  Thomasine  and  I  both  ought  to  have  gone 
to  college. " 

"Landsake!"  said  Mrs.  Green.  "Ain't  you  been  to  college 
for  going  on  three  years?" 

But  Hagar  shook  her  head.  "No.  Eglantine  was  n't  ex 
actly  a  college.  I  ought  to  have  gone  to  a  different  kind  of 
place.  Thomasine  likes  books,  too." 

"Yes,  she  likes  them,  but  she  don't  like  them  nothing  like 
as  much  as  you  do.  But  Thomasine 's  a  good  child  and 
mighty  refined.  I  hope  Jim'll  take  pains  to  get  her  a  place 
where  they  are  nice  people.  He  means  all  right,  but  there! 
men  don't  never  quite  understand." 

"I  wish  I  could  earn  money,"  said  Hagar.  "I  wish  I 
could." 

Mrs.  Green  regarded  her  over  her  spectacles.  "A  lot  of 
women  have  wished  that,  child.  A  lot  of  women  have  wished 
it,  and  then  again  a  lot  of  women  have  n't  wished  it.  Some 
would  rather  do  for  themselves  an'  for  others  an'  some  would 
rather  be  did  for,  and  that's  the  world.  I've  noticed  it  in 
men,  too." 

"It's  in  my  head  all  the  time.  I  think  mother  put  it 
there—" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Green.  "A  lot  of  us  have  felt 
that  way.  But  it  ain't  so  easy  for  women  to  make  money. 
There 's  more  ways  they  can't  than  they  can.  It's  what  they 
call  *  Sentiment'  fights  them.  Sentiment  don't  mind  their 
being  industrious,  but  it  draws  the  line  at  their  getting  money 
for  it.  It  says  it  ought  to  be  a  free  gift.  It  don't  grudge  —  at 
least  it  don't  grudge  much —  a  little  egg  and  butter  money, 
but  anything  more  —  Lord ! "  She  sewed  together  two  strips 


GILEAD   BALM  113 

of  blue  flannel.  "No,  it  ain't  easy.  And  a  woman  kind  of 
gets  discouraged.  She's  put  her  ambition  to  sleep  so  often 
that  now  with  most  of  them  it  seems  asleep  for  keeps.  Them 
that's  industrious  don't  expect  to  rise  or  anything  to  come  of 
it,  and  them  that's  lazy  gets  lazier.  It's  a  funny  world  — 
for  women.  —  There's  a  lot  of  brown  strips  in  the  basket 
there." 

"  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  what  I  've  done,"  said  Hagar,  wind 
ing  a  red  ball.  "  I  Ve  written  a  fairy  story  —  but  I  don't  sup 
pose  it  will  be  taken." 

"I  always  knew  you  could  write,"  said  Mrs.  Green.  "A 
fairy  story!  What's  it  about?" 

"About  fairies  and  a  boy  and  a  girl,  and  a  lovely  land  they 
found  by  going  neither  north  nor  south  nor  east  nor  west,  and 
what  they  did  there.  It  seemed  to  me  right  good,"  said 
Hagar  wistfully;  "but  I  sent  it  off  a  month  ago,  and  I've 
never  heard  a  word  about  it." 

"Where  did  you  send  it?  I  never  did  know,"  said  Mrs. 
Green,  "how  what  people  writes  gets  printed  and  bound.  It 
don't  do  it  just  of  itself." 

Hagar  leaned  forward  in  her  rocking-chair.  Her  cheeks 
were  carmine  and  her  eyes  soft  and  bright.  "The  'Young 
People's  Home  Magazine'  offered  three  prizes  for  the  three 
best  stories  —  stones  that  it  could  publish.  And  I  thought, 
'Why  not  I  as  well  as  another?'  —  and  so  I  wrote  a  fairy 
story  and  sent  it.  The  first  prize  is  two  hundred  dollars,  and 
the  second  prize  is  one  hundred  dollars,  and  the  third  is  fifty 
dollars.  —  If  I  could  get  even  the  third  prize,  I  would  be 
happy." 

"I   should   think  you   would!"   exclaimed   Mrs.   Green. 


HAGAR 

"Fifty  dollars!  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  saw  fifty  dollars  all  in 
one  lump  —  exceptin'  war  money.  When  are  you  going  to 
hear?" 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  afraid  I  won't  ever  hear.  I'm  afraid 
it  was  n't  good  enough  —  not  even  good  enough  for  them 
to  write  to  me  and  say  it  would  n't  do  and  tell  me  why." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  give  up  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Green.  "It's 
my  motto  to  carry  hope  right  spang  through  the  grave."  She 
rose,  fed  the  fire,  and  filled  the  tea-kettle,  then  returned  to  her 
rag  carpet.  "You're  lookin'  a  little  thin,  child.  Don't  let 
them  worry  you  up  at  the  house." 

"  I  'm  not,"  answered  Hagar  sombrely.  The  light  went  out 
of  her  eyes.  She  stitched  slowly,  drawing  her  thread  through 
with  deliberation. 

Mrs.  Green  again  looked  over  her  spectacles.  "They're 
mighty  fine  folk, the  Ashendynes,"  she  said  at  last.  "They've 
got  old  blood  and  pride  for  a  dozen,  and  the  settest  heads! 
Ain't  nothin'  daunts  them,  neither  Satan  nor  the  Lord. 
They're  goin'  to  run  their  own  race.  —  You're  more  like 
your  mother,  but  I  would  n't  say  you  did  n't  have  some 
thing  of  your  grandfather  in  you  at  times.  You've  got  a 
dash  of  Coltsworth,  too." 

"Have  n't  I  anything  of  my  father  at  all?" 

Mrs.  Green,  leaning  forward  into  the  sunlight,  threaded 
her  needle.  "  I  would  n't  be  bitter  about  my  father,  if  I  were 
you.  People  can  be  born  without  a  sense  of  obligation  and 
responsibility  just  as  they  can  be  born  without  other  senses. 
I  suppose  it's  there  somewhere,  only,  so  many  other  things 
are  atop,  it  ain't  hardly  ever  stirred.  Your  father's  right 
rich  in  other  things." 


GILEAD   BALM  115 

"He's  so  poor  he  could  n't  either  truly  love  my  mother  or 
truly  let  her  go.  —  But  I  did  n't  mean  to  talk  about  him," 
said  Hagar.  She  laid  the  ball  she  had  been  winding  in  the 
basket  with  the  other  balls  and  stood  up,  stretching  her 
young  arms  above  her  head.  "Listen  to  the  wind!  I  wish  it 
would  blow  me  away,  neither  north  nor  south  nor  east  nor 
west!" 

"Yes,  you  are  like  your  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Green.  "Have 
you  got  to  go?  Then  will  you  take  your  grandmother's  big 
knitting-needles  back  to  her  for  me  ?  And  don't  you  want  a 
winesap?  —  there's  a  basket  of  them  behind  the  door." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    LETTERS 

Miss  SERENA  was  playing  "  Silvery  Waves. "  Hagar,  kneeling 
on  the  hearth-rug,  warmed  her  hands  at  the  fire  and  studied 
the  illuminated  text  over  the  mantel.  "  Silvery  Waves  "  came 
to  an  end,  and  Miss  Serena  opened  the  green  music-book 
at  "Santa  Anna's  March." 

"Has  Isham  gone  for  the  mail?"  asked  Hagar. 

"Yes.  He  went  an  hour  ago.  —  You're  hoping,  I  suppose, 
for  a  letter  from  that  dreadful  man?" 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do,"  said  Hagar,  "that  I  gave  my 
word  and  he  gave  his  to  write  only  once  a  month.  And  he 
is  n't  a  dreadful  man.  He's  just  like  everybody  else." 

"Ha!"  said  Miss  Serena,  and  brought  her  hands  down 
upon  the  opening  chord.  Hagar,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  hid 
her  eyes  in  her  hands.  Within  her  consciousness  Juliet  was 
speaking  as  she  had  spoken  that  night  upon  the  stage  — 
spoken  in  the  book  —  spoken  in  immortal  life,  youth,  love. 
Not  so,  she  knew  with  a  suddenness  and  clangour  as  of  a  fall 
ing  city,  not  so  could  Juliet  have  spoken!  "Like  everybody 
else" —  Was  Laydon,  then,  truly,  like  everybody  else?  — 
A  horror  of  weakness  and  fickleness  came  over  her.  Was 
there  something  direfully  wrong  with  her  nature,  or  was  it 
possible  for  people  simply  to  be  mistaken  in  such  a  matter? 
Her  head  grew  tired;  she  was  so  unhappy  that  she  wished 
to  creep  away  and  weep  and  weep.  .  .  .  Miss  Serena,  having 


THE   LETTERS  117 

marched  with  Santa  Anna,  turned  a  dozen  pages  and  began 
"The  Mocking  Bird.  With  Variations." 

Old  Miss's  step  was  heard  in  the  hall,  very  firm  and  author 
itative.  In  a  moment  she  entered  the  room,  portly,  not  per 
ceptibly  aged,  her  hair,  beneath  her  cap,  hardly  more  than 
powdered  with  grey,  still  wearing  black  stuff  gowns  and  white 
aprons  and  heelless  low  shoes  over  white  stockings.  Hagar 
rose  from  the  rug  and  pushed  the  big  chair  toward  the  fire. 

Old  Miss  dropped  into  it  —  no,  not  "  dropped" — lowered 
herself  with  dignity.  "Has  Isham  brought  the  mail?" 

"No,  not  yet." 

"  I  dreamed  last  night  that  there  was  a  letter  from  Med- 
way.  Serena!" 

"Yes,  mother?" 

"The  next  text  you  paint  I  want  you  to  do  one  for  me. 
Honour  thy  father  and  mother  that  thy  days  may  be  long — " 

Miss  Serena  turned  on  the  piano-stool.  "I'll  do  it  right 
away,  mother.  It  would  be  lovely  in  blue  and  gold.  .  .  . 
You  can't  say  that  I  have  n't  honoured  father  and  mother." 

Old  Miss  had  drawn  out  her  knitting  and  now  her  needles 
clicked.  "No  one  honours  them  as  they  used  to  be  honoured. 
No  one  obeys  them  as  they  used  to  obey.  To-day  children 
think  that  they  are  wiser  than  their  fathers.  They  set  up 
to  use  their  own  judgment  until  it's  a  scandal.  .  .  .  It's  true 
you've  been  better  than  most,  Serena.  Taking  you  year  in 
and  year  out,  you've  obeyed  the  commandment.  It's  more 
than  many  daughters  and  grand-daughters  that  I  know 
have  done."  Her  needles  clicked  again.  "Yes,  Serena,  you 
have  n't  given  us  much  trouble.  You  were  easy  to  make 
mind  from  the  beginning."  She  gave  the  due  praise,  but  her 


HAGAR 

tone  was  not  without  acerbity.  It  might  almost  have  seemed 
that  such  forthright  ductility  and  keeping  of  the  command 
ment  as  had  been  Miss  Serena's  '  had  its  side  of  annoyance 
and  satiety. 

Hagar  spoke  from  the  window  where  she  stood,  her  fore 
head  pressed  against  the  glass.  "I  see  Isham  down  the  road, 
by  the  Half-Mile  Cedar." 

Old  Miss  turned  the  heel  of  the  Colonel's  sock  she  was  knit 
ting.  "Things  that  from  the  newspaper  and  my  personal 
observation  happen  now  in  the  world  could  not  possibly 
have  occurred  when  I  was  young.  People  defying  their  bet 
ters,  women  deserting  their  natural  sphere,  atheists  denying 
hell  and  saying  that  the  world  wasn't  made  in  six  days, 
young  girls  talking  about  independence  and  their  own  lives  — 
their  own  lives!  Ha!" 

Miss  Serena  began  to  play  "The  Sea  in  the  Shell."  "We 
all  know  how  Hagar  came  by  her  disposition,  but  I  must  say 
it  is  an  unfortunate  one!  When  I  was  her  age,  no  money 
could  have  made  me  act  as  she  has  done." 

"No  money  could  have  made  me,  either,"  spoke  Hagar  at 
the  window. 

"Money  has  nothing  to  do  with  it!"  said  Old  Miss.  "At 
least  as  far  as  Hagar  is  concerned,  nothing!  But  fitness, 
propriety,  meekness,  and  modesty,  consultation  with  those 
to  whom  she  owes  duty,  and  bowing  to  what  they  say  —  all 
those  have  something  to  do  with  it!  But  what  could  you 
expect?  It  was  bound  to  come  out  some  day.  From  a  bush 
with  thorns  will  come  a  bush  with  thorns." 

"Here  is  Isham,"  said  Hagar.  "If  you've  said  enough  for 
to-day,  grandmother,  shall  I  get  the  mail?" 


THE   LETTERS  119 

She  brought  the  bag  to  her  grandmother.  When  the 
Colonel  was  at  home,  no  one  else  opened  the  small  leather 
pouch  and  distributed  its  contents;  when  he  was  away  Old 
Miss  performed  the  ceremony.  To-day  he  had  mounted 
Selim  and  ridden  to  the  meeting  in  the  neighbouring  town. 
Mrs.  Ashendyne  opened  the  bag  and  sorted  the  mail.  There 
was  no  great  amount  of  it,  but —  "I  said  so!  I  dreamed  it. 
My  dreams  often  come  true.  There  it  is!"  "It"  was  a  square 
letter,  quite  thick,  addressed  in  a  rather  striking  hand  and 
bearing  a  foreign  stamp  and  postmark.  It  was  addressed  to 
the  Colonel,  and  Mrs.  Ashendyne  never  opened  the  Colonel's 
letters  —  not  even  when  they  were  from  Medway.  They  were 
not  from  him  very  often.  The  last,  and  that  thin  between 
the  fingers,  had  been  in  September.  This  one  was  so  much 
thicker  than  that  one !  Old  Miss  gazed  at  it  with  greedy  eyes. 

Miss  Serena,  too,  leaving  the  piano-stool,  came  to  her 
mother's  side  and  fingered  the  letter.  "He  must  have  had  a 
lot  to  write  about.  From  Paris.  ...  I  used  to  want  to  go  to 
Paris  so  much!" 

"Put  it  on  the  mantelpiece,"  said  Old  Miss.  "It  can't 
be  long  before  the  Colonel 's  home."  Even  when  it  was  on 
the  mantel-shelf  she  still  sat  looking  at  it  with  devouring 
eyes.  "I  dreamed  it  was  coming  —  and  there  it  is!"  The 
remainder  of  the  mail  waited  under  her  wrinkled  hand. 

Miss  Serena  grew  mildly  impatient.  "What  else  is  there, 
mother?  I'm  looking  for  a  letter  about  those  embroidery 
silks.  There  it  is  now,  I  think!"  She  drew  from  her  mother's 
lap  an  envelope  with  a  printed  return  address  in  the  upper 
left-hand  corner.  "No,  it  is  n't  it.  'Young  People's  Home 
Magazine.'  Some  advertisement  or  other  —  people  pay  a  lot 


120  HAGAR 

to  tell  people  about  things  they  don't  want!  Miss  Hagar 
Ashendyne.  Here,  Hagar!  It  evidently  does  n't  know  that 
you  are  grown  up  —  or  think  you  are!  There  's  my  letter, 
mother,  —  under  the  '  Dispatch."' 

Hagar  went  away  with  the  communication  from  the 
"Young  People's  Home  Magazine"  in  her  hand.  She  went 
upstairs  to  her  own  room.  It  had  been  her  mother's  room. 
She  slept  in  the  four-poster  bed  on  which  Maria  had  died,  and 
she  curled  herself  with  a  book  in  the  corner  of  the  flowered 
chintz  sofa  as  Maria  had  done  before  her.  She  curled  herself 
here  to-day,  though  with  the  letter,  not  with  a  book.  The 
letter  lay  upon  her  knees.  She  looked  at  it  with  a  fixed  coun 
tenance,  hardly  breathing.  She  had  thought  herself  out  of  a 
deal  of  the  conventional  and  materialized  religious  ideas  of 
her  world  —  not  out  of  religion  but  out  of  conventional 
religion.  She  did  not  often  pray  now  for  rewards  or  benefits, 
or  hiatuses  in  the  common  lawj  or  for  a  salvation  external  to 
her  own  being.  But  at  this  moment  the  past  reasserted  itself. 
Her  lips  moved.  "O  God,  let  it  have  been  taken!  O  God, 
let  it  have  been  taken  !  Let  me  have  won  the  fifty  dollars ! 
Let  me  have  won  the  third  prize.  O  God,  let  it  have  been 
taken!" 

At  last,  her  courage  at  the  sticking-point,  she  opened  the 
envelope,  and  unfolded  the  letter  within.  The  typewritten 
words  swam  before  her  eyes,  the  "Dear  Madam,"  the  page 
or  two  that  followed,  the  "With  Congratulations,  we  are 
faithfully  yours."  There  was  an  enclosure  —  a  cheque.  She 
touched  it  with  trembling  fingers.  It  said:  "Pay  to  Miss 
Hagar  Ashendyne  the  Sum  of  Two  Hundred  Dollars." 

An  hour  later,  the  dinner-bell  sounding,  she  went  down- 


THE   LETTERS  121 

stairs.  The  Colonel  and  Captain  Bob  were  yet  at  the  meeting 
of  Democrats.  There  was  to  be  a  public  dinner;  they  would 
not  be  home  before  dusk.  The  three  women  ate  alone,  Dilsey 
waiting.  Old  Miss  was  preoccupied;  the  letter  on  the  par 
lour  mantelpiece  filled  her  mind.  "From  Paris.  In  Septem 
ber  he  was  at  a  place  called  Dinard."  Miss  Serena  had  her 
mind  upon  a  panel  —  calla  lilies  and  mignonette  —  which 
she  was  painting  for  the  rectory  parlour.  As  for  Hagar,  she 
did  not  talk  much,  nowadays,  at  Gilead  Balm.  If  she  were 
more  silent  than  usual  to-day,  it  passed  without  notice. 

Only  once  Old  Miss  remarked  upon  her  appearance. 
"Hagar,  you've  got  a  dazed  look  about  the  eyes.  Are  you 
feeling  badly?" 

"No,  grandmother." 

"You're  not  to  get  ill,  child.  I  shall  make  a  bottle  of 
tansy  bitters  to-morrow  morning.  We  Ve  trouble  enough  in 
this  family  without  your  losing  colour  and  getting  circles 
round  your  eyes." 

That  was  love  and  kindness  from  Old  Miss.  The  water 
came  into  Hagar's  eyes.  She  felt  a  desire  to  tell  her  grand 
mother  and  Aunt  Serena  about  the  letter,  but  in  another  mo 
ment  it  was  gone.  Her  whole  inner  life  was  by  now  secret 
from  them,  and  this  seemed  of  the  inner  life.  Presently,  of 
course,  she  would  deliberately  tell  them  all;  she  had  thought 
it  out  and  determined  that  it  would  be  after  supper,  before 
Uncle  Bob  went  to  bed  and  grandfather  told  her  to  get  the 
chess-table.  It  seemed  so  wonderful  a  thing  to  her;  she  was  so 
awed  by  it  that  she  could  not  help  the  feeling  that  it  would 
be  wonderful  to  them,  too. 

In  the  afternoon  she  put  a  cape  around  her,  left  the  home 


122  HAGAR 

hill  and  went  down  the  lane,  skirted  a  ploughed  field,  and, 
crossing  the  river  road,  came  immediately  to  the  fringe  of 
sycamores  and  willows  upon  the  river  bank.  It  was  warmer 
and  stiller  than  it  had  been  in  the  morning,  for  the  voice  of 
the  wind  there  sounded  now  the  voice  of  the  river;  the  many 
boughs  above  were  still  against  the  sky.  She  made  for  a  great 
sycamore  that  she  had  known  from  childhood;  it  had  a  vast 
protuberant  curving  root  in  whose  embrace  you  could  sit  as 
in  an  armchair.  She  sat  there  now  and  looked  at  the  river 
that  went  so  swiftly  by.  It  was  swollen  with  the  spring 
rains;  it  made  a  deep  noise,  going  by  to  the  distant  sea.  To 
Hagar  its  voice  to-day  was  at  once  solemn  and  jubilant, 
strong  and  stirred  from  depth  to  surface.  She  had  with  her 
the  letter;  how  many  times  she  had  read  it  she  could  not 
have  told.  She  could  have  said  it  by  heart,  but  still  she 
wanted  to  read  it,  to  touch  it,  to  become  aware  of  meaning 
under  meaning.  .  .  .  She  could  write,  she  could  tell  stories, 
she  could  write  books.  .  .  .  She  could  earn  money.  It  was 
one  of  the  moments  of  her  life :  the  moment  when  she  knew 
of  her  mother's  death  —  the  moment  when  she  changed  Gil- 
ead  Balm  for  Eglantine  —  the  moment  by  the  fire,  Christ 
mas  eve  —  this  moment.  She  was  but  eighteen;  the  right- 
angled  turns  in  her  road  of  this  life  had  not  been  many;  this 
was  one  and  a  main  one.  Suddenly,  to  herself,  her  life 
achieved  purpose,  direction.  It  was  as  though  a  rudderless 
boat  had  been  suddenly  mended,  or  a  bewildered  helmsman 
had  seen  the  pole  star. 

She  sat  in  the  embrace  of  the  sycamore,  her  feet  lightly 
resting  on  the  spring  earth,  her  shoulders  just  touching  the 
pale  bark  of  the  tree,  her  arms  folded,  her  eyes  level;  poised, 


THE  LETTERS  123 

recollected  as  a  young  Brahman,  conscious  of  an  expanded 
space,  a  deeper  time.  How  long  she  sat  there  she  did  not 
know;  the  sun  slipped  lower,  touched  her  knees  with  gold. 
She  sighed  at  last,  raised  her  hands  and  turned  her  body. 

What,  perhaps,  had  roused  her  was  the  sound  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  upon  the  river  road.  At  any  rate,  she  now  marked  a 
black  horse  coming  in  the  distance,  down  the  road,  by  the 
speckled  sycamores.  It  came  on  with  a  gay  sound  upon  the 
wind-dried  earth,  and  in  its  rider  she  presently  recognized  her 
cousin,  Ralph  Coltsworth. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  asked  when  he  reined  in 
the  black  horse  beside  her.  "Why  are  n't  you  at  the  Univer 
sity  with  Blackstone  under  your  arm?" 

He  dismounted,  fastened  his  horse,  and  came  across  to  the 
sycamore  root.  "It's  big  enough  for  two,  is  n't  it?"  he  asked, 
and  sat  down  facing  her.  "You  mentioned  the  University? 
The  University,  bless  its  old  heart!  does  n't  appreciate  me." 

"Ralph!  Have  you  been  expelled?" 

"Suspended."  Hands  behind  head,  he  regarded  first  the 
blue  sky  behind  the  interlaced  bare  branches,  then  the  tall 
and  great  gnarled  trunk,  then  the  brown-clad  figure  of  his 
cousin,  enthroned  before  him.  "The  suspense,"  he  said,  "is 
exquisite." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

He  grimaced.  "I  don't  remember.  Why  talk  about  it? 
It  was  n't  much.  Cakes  and  ale  — joie  de  vivre  —  chimes  at 
midnight — same  old  song."  He  laughed.  "I  gather  that 
you've  been  rusticated,  too." 

Hagar  winced.  "Don't! ...  Let's  laugh  about  other 
things.  You  '11  break  your  family's  hearts  at  Hawk  Nest." 


124  HAGAR 

"Old  Miss  said  in  a  letter  which  mother  showed  me 
that  you  were  breaking  hers.  What  kind  of  a  fellow  is  he, 
Hagar?  —  Like  me?  " 

Hagar  looked  at  him  gravely.  "Not  in  the  least.  How 
long  are  you  going  to  stay  at  Hawk  Nest?" 

"Oh,  a  month!   I'm  coming  to  see  you  every  other  day." 

"Are  you?" 

"I  am.  If  I  could  draw  I'd  like  to  draw  you  just  as  you 
look  now  —  half  marquise,  half  dryad  —  sitting  before  your 
own  front  door!" 

"Well,  you  can't  draw,"  said  Hagar.  "And  it's  getting 
cold,  and  the  dryad  is  going  home." 

"All  right,"  said  Ralph.  "I'm  going,  too.  I've  come  to 
spend  the  night." 

Leading  his  horse,  he  walked  beside  her.  In  the  green  lane, 
a  wintry  sunset  glory  over  every  slope  and  distant  wood,  the 
house  between  its  black  cedars  rising  before  them,  he  halted 
a  moment.  "I  have'nt  seen  you  since  August  when  I  rode 
over  to  tell  Gilead  Balm  good-bye.  You  've  changed.  You  've 
'done  growed.'" 

"That  may  be.   I've  grown  to-day." 

"Since  I  came?" 

"No.  Before  you  came.  For  the  first  time  I  suppose  in 
your  life,  grandmother  is  going  to  be  sorry  to  see  you.  She 
worships  you." 

"She  was  sorry  to  see  you,  too,  was  n't  she?  It's  rather 
nice  to  be  companions  out  of  favour." 

"Oh!"  cried  Hagar.  "You  are  and  always  were  the  most 
provoking  twister  of  the  truth!  I  want  to  say  to  you  that  I 
do  not  consider  that  ours  are  similar  cases!  And  now,  if  you 


THE   LETTERS 


125 


please,  that  is  the  last  word  I  am  going  to  say  to  you  on  such 


a  matter." 


"All  right!"  said  Ralph.  "I  was  curious,  of  course.  But 
I  acknowledge  your  right  to  shut  me  up." 

They  passed  through  the  home  gate,  —  where  a  boy  took 
his  horse,  —  and  went  up  the  hill  together.  Dilsey  was  light 
ing  the  lamps.  As  they  entered  the  hall  Miss  Serena  came 
out  of  the  library  —  Miss  Serena  looking  curiously  agitated. 
"Dilsey,  has  n't  Miss  Hagar  come  in  yet? .  .  .  Oh,  Hagar! 
I've  been  searching  the  place  for  you —  Why,  Ralph! 
Where  on  earth  did  you  come  from?  Has  the  University 
burned  down?  Have  you  got  a  holiday?" 

The  library  door  was  ajar.  The  Colonel's  voice  made  it 
self  heard  from  within.  "Serena!  Is  that  Hagar?  Tell  her 
to  come  here." 

The  three  entered  the  room  together.  There  was  a  slight 
clamour  of  surprise  and  greeting  from  its  occupants  for 
Ralph,  but  it  died  down  in  the  face,  as  it  were,  of  things  of 
greater  importance. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  bringing  up  at  last  by 
Captain  Bob  in  the  background. 

"A  letter  from  Medway,"  answered  the  other.   "Shh!" 

The  evenings  falling  cold,  there  was  a  fire  upon  the  hearth. 
The  reading-lamp  was  lit;  all  the  room  was  in  a  glow  that 
caressed  the  stiff  portraits,  the  old  mahogany  and  horsehair 
furniture,  the  bookcases  and  the  books  within.  In  the 
smaller  of  the  two  great  chairs  by  the  hearth  sat  Old  Miss, 
preternaturally  straight,  her  hands  folded  on  the  black  silk 
apron  which  she  donned  in  the  evening,  her  still  comely  face 
and  head  rising  from  the  narrow,  very  fine  embroidered 


126  HAGAR 

collar  fastened  by  an  oval  brooch  in  which,  in  a  complicated 
pattern,  was  wrought  the  hair  of  dead  Coltsworths  and  Har 
dens.  Her  face  wore  a  look  at  once  softened  and  fixed.  Across 
from  her,  in  the  big  chair  by  the  leaf-table,  sat  Colonel  Ash- 
endyne,  a  little  greyer,  a  little  more  hawklike  of  nose,  a  little 
sparer  in  frame  as  the  years  went  by,  but  emphatically  not  a 
person  to  whom  could  be  applied  the  term  "old."  There 
breathed  from  him  still  an  insolent,  determined  prime,  a 
timelessness,  a  pictorial  quality  as  of  some  gallery  master 
piece.  With  the  greyish-amber  of  his  yet  plentiful  hair,  his 
mustache  and  imperial,  the  racer  set  of  his  head,  his  well- 
shaped  jaw  and  long  nervous  hands,  his  fine,  long,  spare 
figure  and  his  eye  in  which  a  certain  bladelike  keenness  and 
cynicism  warred  with  native  sensuousness,  he  stayed  in  the 
memory  like  such  a  canvas.  His  mood  always  showed 
through  him,  though  somewhat  cloudily  like  light  through 
a  Venetian  glass.  That  it  was  a  mixed  and  curious  mood  to 
night,  Hagar  felt  the  moment  she  was  in  the  room.  She  did 
not  always  like  her  grandfather,  but  she  usually  understood 
him.  She  saw  the  letter  that  had  rested  on  the  mantelpiece, 
the  letter  from  Paris,  in  his  hand,  and  at  once  there  came 
over  her  a  curious  foreboding,  she  did  not  know  whether  of 
good  or  evil. 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  Colonel.  "I  have  something  to  read 
to  you." 

For  two  months  and  more  he  had  not  looked  at  her  with 
out  anger  in  his  eyes.  To-night  the  cloud  seemed  at  least 
partly  to  have  gone  by.  There  was  even  in  the  Colonel's 
tone  a  touch  of  blandness,  of  enjoyment  of  the  situation. 
She  sat  down,  wondering,  her  eyes  upon  the  letter.  On  occa- 


THE   LETTERS  127 

sion,  when  she  searched  her  heart  through,  she  found  but  a 
shrivelled  love  for  her  father.  Except  that  he  had  had  half- 
share  in  giving  her  life,  she  really  did  not  know  what  she  had 
to  love  him  for.  Now,  however,  what  power  of  growth  there 
was  in  the  winter-wrapped  root  broke  the  soil.  She  began  to 
tremble.  "What  is  the  matter?  Is  father  ill?  Is  he  coming 
home?" 

"Not  immediately,"  said  the  Colonel.  "No,  he  is  not  ill. 
He  appears  to  be  in  his  usual  health  and  to  exhibit  his 
usual  good  spirits.  Your  grandmother  and  I  were  fortunate 
in  having  a  son  of  a  disposition  so  happy  that  he  left  all 
clouds  and  difficulties,  including  his  own,  to  other  people. 
At  the  proper  moment  he  has  always  been  able  to  find  a 
burden-bearer.  No,  Medway  is  well,  and  apparently  happy. 
He  has  remarried." 

"Remarried!..." 

It  was  the  Colonel's  intention  to  read  her  the  letter  —  in 
deed,  it  carried  an  inclosure  for  her  —  as  he  had  already  read 
it,  twice,  with  varying  comment,  to  the  others  assembled. 
But  he  chose  to  make  first,  his  own  introduction.  "You've 
heard  of  the  cat  that  always  falls  on  its  feet?  Well,  that's 
your  father,  Gipsy!"  —  Even  in  the  whirl  of  the  moment 
Hagar  could  not  but  note  that  he  called  her  "Gipsy."  — 
"That's  Medway!  Here's  a  careless,  ungrateful,  disobe 
dient  son,  utterly  reckless  of  his  obligations.  Is  he  hanged 
or  struck  by  lightning?  Not  he!  He  goes  happily  along  — 
Master  Lucky-Dog!  He  makes  a  disastrous  marriage  with 
a  penniless  remnant  of  a  broken-down  family  on  some  lost 
coast  or  other  and  brings  her  home,  and  presently  there's  a 
child.  Does  he  undertake  to  support  them,  stay  by  his  bar- 


128  HAGAR 

gain,  however  poor  a  one?  Not  he!  He's  got  a  tiny  income 
in  his  own  right,  left  him  by  his  maternal  grandfather  —  just 
enough,  with  care,  for  one!  Off  he  goes  with  that  in  his 
pocket  and  a  wealthy  friend  and,  from  that  day  to  this,  we 
have  n't  laid  eyes  on  Prince  Fortunatus !  Well,  what  happens  ? 
Does  he  come  to  eating  husks  with  the  swine  and  so  at  last 
slink  back!  Not  he!  He  enjoys  life;  he's  free  and  footloose; 
he 's  put  his  burden  on  other  folk's  backs !  Death  comes  along 
and  unmakes  his  marriage.  His  doting  mother  and  his  weak 
father  apparently  are  prepared  to  charge  themselves  with  the 
maintenance  of  his  child.  Why  should  he  trouble?  He 
does  n't  —  not  in  the  least!  He's  got  just  enough  in  his  own 
right  to  let  him  wander,  en  gar$on,  over  creation.  If  he  took 
the  least  care  of  another  he  could  n't  wander,  and  he  likes  to 
wander.  Ah,  I  understand  Medway,  from  hair  to  heel!  — 
What  comes  of  it  all?  We  used  to  believe  in  Nemesis,  but 
that,  like  other  beliefs,  is  going  by  the  board.  Is  n't  he  going 
to  suffer?  Not  at  all!  He  remains  the  cat  that  falls,  every 
time,  upon  its  feet.  —  This,  Gipsy,  is  the  letter." 

My  dear  Father  and  Mother:  —  As  well  as  I  can  remember, 
I  was  staying  at  Dinard  when  I  last  wrote  you.  I  was  there 
because  of  the  presence  in  that  charming  place  of  a  lady  whose 
acquaintance  I  had  made,  the  previous  year,  at  Aix-les-Bains. 
From  Dinard  I  followed  her,  in  November,  to  Nice,  and  from 
Nice  to  Italy.  I  spent  a  portion  of  February  as  her  guest  in  her 
villa  near  Sorrento,  and  there  matters  were  brought  to  a  conclu 
sion.  I  proposed  marriage  and  she  accepted.  We  were  married 
a  week  ago  :in  Rome,  in  the  English  church,  before  a  large 
company,  the  American  Minister  giving  her  away.  There  were 


THE   LETTERS  129 

matters  to  be  arranged  with  her  banker  and  lawyer  in  Paris,  and 
so,  despite  the  j act  that  March  is  a  detestable  month  in  this  city, 
we  immediately  came  on  here.  Later  we  shall  be  in  Brittany, 
and  we  talk  of  Norway  for  the  summer. 

The  lady  whom  I  have  married  was  the  widow  of , 

the  noted  financier  and  railroad  magnate.  She  is  something 
under  my  own  age,  accomplished,  attractive,  handsome,  and 
possessed  of  a  boundless  good  nature  and  a  benevolent  heart.  We 
understand  each  other's  nature  and  expect  to  be  happy  together. 
I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  being  who  she  is,  she  has  extreme 
wealth.  If  you  read  the  papers  —  I  do  not  —  you  may  perhaps 

recall  that 's  will  left  his  millions  to  her  absolutely  without 

condition.  There  were  no  children,  To  close  this  matter  :  —  she 
has  been  generous  to  a  degree  in  insisting  that  certain  settlements 
be  made  —  it  leaves  me  with  a  personal  financial  independence 
and  assurance  of  which,  of  course,  I  never  dreamed.  ...  7  have 
often  regretted  that  I  have  been  able  to  do  so  little  for  you,  or  for 
the  upkeep  of  dear  old  Gilead  Balm.  This,  in  the  future,  may  be 
rectified.  I  understand  that  you  have  had  to  raise  money  upon 
the  place,  and  I  wish  you  would  let  me  know  the  amount." 

The  Colonel's  eyes  darted  cold  fire.  He  let  the  sheet  fall 
for  the  moment  and  turned  upon  Hagar,  sitting  motionless 
on  the  ottoman  by  the  fire.  "Damn  your  father's  imperti 
nence,  Gipsy!"  he  said. 

Old  Miss  spoke  in  a  soft  and  gentle  voice.  "Why  do  you 
call  it  that,  Colonel?  Medway  always  had  a  better  heart 
than  he's  ever  been  given  credit  for.  Why  should  n't  he  help 
now  that  he  can  do  so?  It's  greatly  to  his  credit  that  he 
should  write  that  way." 


130  HAGAR 

"Sarah,"  said  the  Colonel,  "you  are  a  soft-hearted  — 
mother!" 

Captain  Bob  spoke  from  beyond  the  table.  Captain  Bob 
did  not  often  speak,  nor  often  with  especial  weight,  but  he 
had  been  pondering  this  matter  for  three  quarters  of  an  hour, 
and  he  had  a  certain  kind  of  common  sense.  "  I  think  Sarah 's 
right.  Medway's  a  curiosity  to  me,  but  I've  always  held 
that  he  was  born  that  way.  You  are,  you  know;  you  're  born 
so  or  you  aren't  born  so.  He's  pretty  consistent.  There 
never  was  a  time  when  I  would  n't  have  said  that  he  would 
come  to  the  fore  just  as  soon  as  he  did  n't  have  to  deny  him 
self.  Now  the  time's  come,  and  here  he  is.  I  think  Sarah's 
right.  Forgive  and  forget!  If  he  wants  to  pay  his  debts  — 
and  God  knows  he  owes  you  and  Sarah  a  lot —  I'd  let  him. 
And  as  to  Gipsy  there  —  better  late  than  never!  Read  her 
what  he  says." 

"  I  am  going  to,"  said  the  Colonel  sardonically.  He  read  the 
page  that  remained,  then  laid  the  letter  on  the  table,  put 
his  hands  behind  his  head  and  regarded  his  granddaughter. 
"The  benevolent  parent  arrived  at  last  upon  the  scene  —  a 
kindly  disposed  stepmother  with  millions  —  and  that  teacher 
of  surface  culture  to  young  ladies  at  Eglantine!  Among  the 
three  you  ought  to  be  quite  ideally  provided  for!  I  hope 
Medway  will  like  the  teacher." 

Old  Miss  came,  unexpectedly,  to  her  granddaughter's  aid. 
"Don't  worry  her,  Colonel!  I  have  n't  thought  her  looking 
well  to-day.  Give  her  her  letter,  and  let  her  go  and  think  it 
out  quietly  by  herself.  —  If  you  like,  child,  Phoebe  shall 
bring  you  your  supper." 

Hagar  did  like  —  oh,  would  like  that,  thank  you,  grand- 


THE   LETTERS  131 

mother,  very  much!  She  took  the  letter  —  it  was  addressed 
to  her  in  a  woman's  hand  —  which  her  father  had  enclosed 
and  which  her  grandfather  now  held  out  to  her,  and  went 
away,  feeling  somewhat  blindly  for  the  door,  leaving  the 
others  staring  after  her.  Upstairs  she  lit  her  lamp  and 
placed  it  on  Maria's  table,  by  Maria's  couch.  Then,  curled 
there,  against  the  chintz-covered  pillows,  —  they  were  in  a 
pattern  of  tulips  and  roses,  —  she  read  the  very  kind  letter 
which  her  stepmother  had  written. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  MEETING 

THE  New  Springs  had  been  so  christened  about  a  hundred 
years  before,  when  a  restless  pioneer  family  had  moved  west 
ward  and  upward  from  the  Old  Springs,  thirty  miles  away, 
at  the  foot  of  the  great  forest-clad  range.  The  New  Springs 
had  been  a  deer-lick,  and  apparently,  from  the  number  of 
arrowheads  forever  being  unearthed,  a  known  region  to  the 
Indians.  Now  the  Indians  were  gone,  and  the  deer  fast,  fast 
withdrawing.  Occasionally  buck  or  doe  was  shot,  but  for 
the  most  part  they  were  phantoms  of  the  past.  So  with  the 
bear  who  used  to  come  down  to  the  corncribs  in  the  lonely 
clearings.  Bear  Mountain  still  rose  dark  blue,  like  a  wall, 
and  the  stark  cliff  called  Bear's  Den  caught  the  first  ray  of 
the  sun,  but  the  bears  themselves  were  seldom  seen.  They 
also  were  phantoms  of  the  past.  But  the  fish  stayed  in  the 
mountain  streams.  There  were  many  streams  and  many  fish, 
—  bright,  speckled  mountain  trout,  darting  and  flashing 
among  pools  and  cascades,  now  seen  in  the  sunlight,  now 
lurking  by  fern-crowned  rocks,  in  the  shadow  of  the  dark 
hemlock  spruce.  The  region  was  Fisherman's  Paradise. 

It  was  almost  an  all-day's  climb  from  the  nearest  railway 
station  to  the  New  Springs.  You  took  the  stage  in  the  first 
freshness  of  the  morning;  you  went  gaily  along  for  a  few  miles 
through  a  fair  grazing  country;  then  the  stage  began  to  climb, 
and  it  climbed  and  climbed  until  you  wondered  where  and 


A   MEETING  133 

when  the  thing  was  going  to  stop.  Every  now  and  then 
driver  and  passengers  got  down  and  walked.  Here  it  was 
shady,  with  wonderful  banks  of  rhododendron,  with  ferns  and 
overhanging  trees,  and  here  it  was  sunny  and  hot,  with  the 
wood  scrub  or  burned,  and  the  only  interesting  growth  huck 
leberries  and  huckleberries  and  huckleberries,  dwarf  under 
the  blazing  sun,  with  butterflies  flitting  over  them.  Up  here 
you  had  wonderful  views;  you  saw  a  sea  of  mountains,  tre 
mendous,  motionless  waves;  the  orb  as  it  had  wrinkled  when 
man  and  beast  and  herb  were  not.  At  last,  somewhere  on  the 
long  crest,  having  been  told  that  you  must  bring  luncheon 
with  you  and  having  provided  yourself  at  the  railway  station 
with  cold  bread  and  fruit  and  hard-boiled  eggs,  you  had 
luncheon.  It  was  eaten  near  a  bubbling  spring  with  a  water- 
trough  at  which  the  horses  were  drinking,  and  eaten  with 
the  most  tremendous  appetite.  By  now  you  were  convinced 
that  the  air  up  here  was  blowing  through  a  champagne 
bottle.  Luncheon  over  and  the  horses  rested,  on  went  the 
stage.  Quite  in  the  mid-afternoon  you  began  to  go  down  the 
mountain.  Somewhat  later,  in  a  turn  by  a  buckwheat  field 
waving  white  in  the  summer  wind,  the  driver  would  point 
with  his  whip  —  "Right  down  there  —  there's  the  New 
Springs!  Be  there  in  an  hour  now." 

It  might  be  "right  down  there,"  but  still  the  New  Springs 
was  pretty  high  in  the  world,  away,  away  above  sea  level. 
You  always  slept  at  the  New  Springs  under  blankets,  you 
nearly  always  had  a  fire  in  the  evening;  even  the  heat  of  the 
midday  sun  in  the  dog  days  was  only  a  dry,  delightful 
warmth.  Hardly  anywhere  did  the  stars  shine  so  brightly, 
the  air  was  so  rare  and  fine. 


134  HAGAR 

The  New  Springs  boasted  no  imposing  dwellings.  There 
was  a  hotel,  of  faint,  old,  red  brick,  with  a  pillared  verandah, 
and  there  were  half  a  dozen  one-story  frame  cottages,  each 
with  a  small  porch  and  growing  over  it  its  individual  vine. 
Honeysuckle  clambered  over  one,  and  hops  over  another, 
and  a  scarlet  bean  over  a  third,  and  so  on.  There  was  an 
ice-cold  sulphur  spring  where  the  bubbles  were  always  ris 
ing,  and  around  it  was  built  a  rustic  pavilion.  Also  there 
existed  a  much-out-of-repair  bowling-alley. 

"Yes,  there's  the  New  Springs,"  said  the  driver,  pointing 
with  his  whip.  "But,  Lord!  it  stopped  being  new  a  long 
time  ago." 

There  were  hardly  any  passengers  to-day;  only  three  in 
fact:  two  women  and  a  man.  All  three  were  young  enough  to 
accomplish  with  enjoyment  a  great  deal  of  walking  up  the 
long  mountain.  They  had  laughed  and  talked  together, 
though  of  very  nothings  as  became  just-met  folk.  The  birds 
and  the  bees  and  butterflies,  the  flowers,  the  air,  and  the  view 
had  been  the  chief  subjects  of  comment.  Now,  back  in  the 
stage  for  the  descent,  they  held  in  their  hands  flowers  and 
ferns  and  branches  covered  with  ripe  huckleberries  which 
they  detached  from  the  stems,  lifted  to  their  lips  and  ate. 
The  two  women  were  friends,  coming,  so  they  now  ex 
plained  to  their  fellow-traveller,  from  a  distance  to  this 
little  out-of-the-way  place.  The  brother  of  one,  it  seemed, 
was  a  great  fisherman  and  came  often.  He  was  not  here 
this  year;  he  was  travelling  in  Palestine;  but  he  had  advised 
his  sister,  who  was  a  little  broken  down  and  wanted  a 
quiet  place  to  work  in,  to  come  here.  She  said,  jubilantly, 
that  if  the  air  was  always  going  to  be  like  this  she  was  glad 


A  MEETING  135 

she  had  come.  It  had  seemed  funny,  at  first,  to  think  of 
coming  South  for  the  summer  —  though  her  friend  was 
half-Southern  and  didn't  mind. 

"I'm  wondering,"  said  the  fellow-traveller,  with  an  effect 
of  gallantry,  "what  in  the  world  the  work  can  be!  The  very 
latest  thing,  I  suppose,  in  fancy-work  —  or  perhaps  you  do 
pastels?" 

Elizabeth  Eden  looked  at  him  with  her  very  candid  grey 
eyes.  "I'm  doing  a  book  of  statistics  —  women  and  chil 
dren  in  industry." 

"And  I,"  said  the  other,  Marie  Caton,  "I  teach  English 
to  immigrant  girls.  We  are  both  Settlement  workers." 

Laydon  prided  himself  on  his  ability  quickly  to  shift  sail. 
"Oh!"  he  said;  "a  Settlement!  That's  an  idea  that  hasn't 
got  down  to  us  yet.  We  are  rather  lazy,  I  suppose.  —  I  was 
reading,  though,  an  excellent  article  upon  Settlements  in 
one  of  the  current  magazines  only  the  other  day.  Ladies, 
especially,  seem  to  be  going  in  for  that  kind  of  work;  —  of 
course,  it  is,  when  you  think  of  it,  only  an  extension  of  their 
historic  function  as  'loaf-giver.'  Charity  and  Woman  — 
they're  almost  synonymous." 

"That's  a  magnificent  compliment  —  or  meant  to  be!" 
said  Marie  Caton.  Her  eyes  were  dancing.  "I  wonder  what 
you'd  say  if  I  said  that  charity  —  charity  in  your  sense  — 
is  one  of  woman's  worst  weaknesses?  Thank  God  Settle 
ments,  bad  as  they  are,  aren't  charity!" 

"Look  at  the  view,  Marie,"  said  Elizabeth.  "And,  oh! 
feel  that  wind!  Is  n't  it  divine?" 

"Winds  blow  from  all  four  points  at  oncet  up  here,"  said 
the  driver.  "Ain't  many  people  at  the  New  Springs  this 


136  HAGAR 

summer.  Fish  don't  bite,  or  everybody's  gone  to  the  World's 
Fair,  or  something  or  other!  Ain't  more'n  forty  people, 
countin'  children." 

"  What  kind  of  people  are  they  ?  Do  the  women  fish,  too  ? " 
"No,  ma'am,  not  much.  It's  the  husbands  and  brothers 
and  fathers  does  the  fishing  mostly  —  though  there's  Mrs. 
Josslyn.  She  fishes.  The  others  just  sit  around  in  rocking- 
chairs,  I  reckon,  and  crochet.  Them  that  has  children  looks 
after  them,  and  them  that  has  n't  listens  to  them  that  has. 
Then  it's  a  fine  air  for  the  health;  fine  air  and  fine  water.  A 
lot  of  tired  people  come.  Then  there's  others  get  into  the 
habit  of  meeting  friends  here.  Being  on  the  border,  as  it 
were,  it's  convenient  for  more  states  than  one.  ^Colonel  Ash- 
endyne,  for  instance,  —  he  comes  because  General  Argyle 
and  Judge  Black  and  he  made  a  pact  in  the  war  that  if  they 
lived  through  they'd  spend  a  month  together  every  two 
years  until  they  died.  They've  kept  it  faithful,  and  because 
Judge  Black 's  a  great  fisherman,  and  General  Argyle  likes 
the  juleps  they  make  here,  and  Colonel  Ashendyne  knew  the 
place  when  he  was  a  boy,  they  pitched  on  the  New  Springs. 
When  they're  here  together,  they're  the  three  Kings. —  Git 
up,thar,  Dandy! —  This  year  the  Colonel's  got  his  daughter 
and  granddaughter  with  him." 

Laydon  nodded,  looking  animated  and  handsome.  "I 
know  the  Ashendynes.  Indeed. — but  that  is  neither  here  nor 
there.  The  Ashendynes,"  he  explained  for  the  benefit  of  the 
two  foreigners,  "are  one  of  our  oldest  families,  with  connec 
tions  everywhere;  not  wealthy,  —  we  have  very  little  wealth, 
you  know,  —  but  old,  very  widespread  and  honoured.  A 
number  of  them  in  the  past  were  really  famous.  It  might  be 


A  MEETING  137 

said  of  the  Ashendynes  as  it  was  said  of  an  English  family  — 
'All  the  sons  were  brave  and  all  the  daughters  virtuous.'" 

"You  seem,"  said  Marie  Caton,  "to  have  a  profound 
acquaintance  with  the  best  literature." 

Laydon  disclaimed  it  with  a  modest  shake  of  the  head. 
"Oh,  only  so-so!  However,  literature  is  my  profession.  I 
have  a  chair  of  Belles-Lettres." 

"That  is  interesting,"  said  Elizabeth  in  her  friendly  voice. 
"Is  it  your  vacation?  Are  you  a  fisherman,  too?" 

"Oh,  I  fish  a  little  on  occasion!  But  I  am  not  what  you 
call  a  great  fisherman.  And  I  was  never  at  the  New  Springs 
before."  He  gave  a  half-boyish,  embarrassed  laugh.  "To 
tell  the  truth,  I  am  one  of  those  persons  who've  come  be 
cause  another  person  happens  to  be  here — " 

"Oh!"  said  Marie  Caton,  "I  see!"  She  began  presently 
to  hum  beneath  her  breath  — 

"Gin  a  body  meet  a  body, 

Comin'  through  the  rye  —  " 

"Oh,  what  a  rough  piece  of  road!" 

"It  ain't  often  mended,"  said  the  driver.  "They  say 
times  is  changing,  —  there  was  a  fellow  through  here  last 
summer  said  they  was  changing  so  rapid  they  made  you 
dizzy,  —  but  there  ain't  much  change  gotten  round  to  Bear 
Mountain.  I  remember  that  identical  rut  there  when  I  was 
just  a  little  shaver.  —  Look  out,  now,  on  that  side,  and 
you'll  see  the  New  Springs  again!  We  ain't  more'n  a  mile 
an'  a  half  away  now.  The  ladies  often  walk  up  here  to  see 
the  sunset." 

"There  's  one  coming  up  the  road  now,"  said  Marie  Caton, 
"In  a  green  gingham  and  a  shady  hat." 


138  HAGAR 

"That,"  said  the  driver,  "'11  be  Miss  Hagar  —  Colonel 
Ashendyne's  granddaughter.  She  and  me's  great  friends. 
Come  by  here  'most  any  evenin'  and  you'll  find  her  sittin* 
on  the  big  rock  there,  lookin'  away  to  Kingdom  Come." 

"Stop  a  minute,"  spoke  Laydon,  "and  let  me  out  here.  I 
know  Miss  Ashendyne.  [I  '11  wait  here  to  meet  her  and  walk 
back  to  the  Springs  with  her." 

He  lifted  his  hat  to  his  fellow-travellers  and  the  stage  went 
on  without  him.  "A  nice,  clean-looking  man,"  said  Eliza 
beth  who  was  inveterate  at  finding  good;  "not  very  original, 
but  then  who  is?" 

1  I  can't  answer  it,"  said  Marie  promptly.  "  Now  we  '11 
see  the  girl!  She's  coming  up  straight  and  light,  like  a  right 
mountain  climber."  The  stage  met  and  passed  Hagar,  she 
and  the  driver  exchanging  "Good-evenings!"  The  stage 
lumbered  on  down  the  slope.  "  I  liked  her  looks,"  said  Marie. 
"Now,  they  're  meeting  — " 

"Don't  look  back." 

"All  right,  I  won't.  I'd  like  such  consideration  myself.  — 
Betsy,  Betsy!  You  are  going  to  get  strong  enough  at  the 
New  Springs  to  throw  every  statistic  between  Canada  and 
Mexico!" 

Back  beside  the  big  rock  at  the  bend  of  the  road,  Hagar 
and  Laydon  met.  "There  isn't  any  one  to  see!"  he  ex 
claimed,  and  would  have  taken  her  in  his  arms. 

She  evaded  his  grasp,  putting  out  her  hand  and  a  light 
staff  which  she  carried.  "No,  Mr.  Laydon!  Wait  —  wait  —  " 
Stepping  backward  to  the  rock  by  the  wayside  she  sat  down 
upon  it,  behind  her  all  the  waves  of  the  Endless  Mountains. 
"  I  only  got  your  letter  yesterday.  It  had  been  delayed.  If  I 


A  MEETING  139 

had  had  it  in  time,  I  should  have  written  to  you  not  to 


come." 


"I  told  you  in  it,"  smiled  Laydon,  "that  I  was  not  afraid 
of  your  grandfather.  He  can't  eat  me.  The  New  Springs  is 
as  much  mine  to  come  to  as  it  is  his.  I  had  just  three  days 

before  I  go  to to  see  about  that  opening  there.  The 

idea  came  to  me  that  if  I  could  really  see  him  and  talk  to  him, 
he  might  become  reconciled.  And  then,  dear  little  girl!  I 
wanted  to  see  you!  I  could  n't  resist — " 

As  he  spoke  he  moved  toward  her  again.  She  shook  her 
head  and  put  out  again  the  hand  with  the  staff.  "No.  That 
is  over.  ...  I  came  up  here  to  meet  you  because  I  wanted  to 
find  out  —  to  know  —  to  be  certain,  at  once — " 

"To  find  out  —  to  know  —  to  be  certain  of  what?"  He 
smiled.  "That  I  am  just  the  same? —  That  I  love  you 
still?" 

"To  be  certain,"  said  Hagar,  "that  I  was  "mistaken.  .  .  . 
I  have  got  my  certainty." 

"I  wish,"  said  Laydon,  after  a  pause,  "that  I  knew  what 
you  were  driving  at.  There  was  something  in  your  last 
month's  letter,  and  for  the  matter  of  that  in  the  month  be 
fore,  that  struck  cold.  Have  I  offended  you  in  any  way, 
Hagar?" 

"You  have  not  been  to  blame,"  said  Hagar.  "I  don't 
think  either  of  us  was  to  blame.  I  think  it  was  an  honest 
mistake.  I  think  we  took  a  passing  lightning  flash  for  the 

sun  in  heaven Mr.  Laydpn,  that  evening  in  the  parlour 

at  Eglantine  and  the  morning  after,  when  we  walked  to  the 
gate,  and  the  road  was  sunny  and  lonely  and  the  bells  were 
ringing,  oh,  then  I  am  sure  I  loved  you — "  She  drew  her 


I4o  HAGAR 

hand  across  brow  and  eyes.  "Or,  if  not  you,  I  loved  —  Love! 
But  after  that,  oh,  steadily  after  that,  it  lessened — " 

"' Lessened'!  —  You  mean  that  you  are  not  in  love  with 
me  as  you  were?" 

"  I  am  not  in  love  with  you  at  all.  I  was  in  love  with  you, 
or  ....  I  was  in  love.  I  am  not  now."  She  struck  her  staff 
against  the  rock.  "I  almost  hope  I  '11  never  be  in  love 
again!" 

Across  from  a  cleared  hillside,  steep  and  grassy,  came  a 
tinkling  of  sheep-bells.  The  sun  hung  low  in  the  west  and 
the  trees  cast  shadows  across  the  road.  A  vireo  was  singing 
in  a  walnut  tree,  a  chipmunk  ran  along  a  bit  of  old  rail  fence. 
A  zephyr  brought  an  odour  dank  and  rich,  from  the  aged 
forest  that  hung  above. 

"I  think,"  said  Laydon,  "that  you  are  treating  me  very 
badly." 

"Am  I  ?  I  am  sorry.  .  .  .  You  must  n't  think  that  I  have  n't 
been  wretched  over  all  this.  But  it  would  be  treating  you 
badly,  indeed,  if  I  were  such  a  coward  as  to  let  it  go  pn." 
She  looked  at  him  oddly.  "Will  you  be — Are  you  much 
hurt?" 

"I  —  I — "  said  Laydon.  "I  do  not  think  you  quite  con 
ceive  what  you  are  saying,  nor  what  such  a  cool  pronuncia- 
mento  must  mean  to  a  man!  Hurt?  Yes,  I  am  hurt.  My 
pride  —  my  confidence  in  you  —  my  assurance  that  I  had 
your  heart  and  that  you  had  put  your  life  in  my  keeping  — 
the  love  that  I  truly  felt  for  you  — " 

"'Felt.'  —  You  loved  me,  loving  you.  Oh,"  said  Hagar, 
"I  feel  so  old  — so  old!" 

"I   loved   you  sincerely.    I   imperilled   my  position  for 


A   MEETING  141 

you  —  to  a  certain  extent,  all  my  prospects  in  life.  I  had 
delightful  visions  of  the  day  when  we  should  be  finally  to 
gether  —  the  home  you  would  make  —  the  love  and  protec 
tion  I  should  give  you  — " 

"You  are  honest,"  said  Hagar,  "and  I  like  honesty.  If  I 
have  done  you  any  wrong  at  all,  if  I  have  made  life  any  harder 
for  you,  if  I  have  destroyed  any  ideals,  if  I  have  done  you 
the  least  harm,  I  very  heartily  beg  your  pardon." 

Laydon  drew  from  his  pocket  a  small  box  and  opened  it. 
"I  had  brought  you  that — " 

Hagar  took  it  in  her  hand  and  looked  at  it.  "  It  is  lovely !  " 
she  said.  "A  diamond  and  a  sapphire!  And  it  is  n't  going  to 
be  wasted.  You  keep  it.  Sooner  or  later  you  '11  surely  need  it. 
You  could  n't  have  bought  a  prettier  one."  She  looked  up 
with  a  soft,  bright,  almost  maternal  face.  "You  don't  know 
how  much  happier  I  am  having  faced  it,  and  said  it,  and 
had  it  over  with!  And  you  —  I  don't  believe  you  are  so  un 
happy!  Now  are  you  —  now  are  you?" 

"You  have  put  me  in  an  absurd  position.  What  am  I  to 
say—" 

"To  people?  Nothing  —  or  what  you  please.  I  will  tell 
grandfather  myself,  to-night  —  and  Aunt  Serena.  I  shall 
tell  them  that  you  have  behaved  extremely  well,  and  that  it 
was  all  my  fault.  Or  no!  I  shall  tell  them  that  we  both 
found  out  that  we  had  been  mistaken,  for  I  think  that  that 
is  the  truth.  And  that  we  have  had  an  explanation,  and  are 
now  and  for  always  just  well-wishers  and  common  friends  and 
nothing  more.  I  am  going  to  try  —  I  think  that  now  maybe 
I  can  do  it  —  to  get  grandfather  to  treat  you  properly.  There 
is  nobody  else  here  whose  business  it  is,  or  who  knows  any- 


142  HAGAR 

thing  about  it  —  and  you  have  only  three  days  anyway. 
There  are  some  pleasant  people,  and  you'll  meet  them.  It 
is  n't  going  to  be  awkward,  indeed,  it  is  n't  — ' 

"By  George!"  said  Laydon,  "if  you  aren't  the  cool 
est  ...  Of  course,  if  this  is  the  way  you  feel,  it  may  be 
wisest  not  to  link  my  life  with  —  Naturally  a  man  wants 
entire  love,  admiration,  and  confidence — " 

"Just  so,"  said  Hagar.  "And  you'll  find  some  one  to  feel 
all  that.  And  now  let's  walk  to  the  New  Springs." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   NEW    SPRINGS 

LAYDON'S  three  days  spun  themselves  out  to  five  with  a  fine 
smoothness.  Colonel  Ashendyne's  tone  was  balm  itself  to 
what  it  might  have  been.  Miss  Serena  was  willing  to  discuss 
with  him  "In  Memoriam"  and  the  novels  of  Miss  B  rough- 
ton,  and  Ralph  Coltsworth  who  was  also  at  the  New  Springs 
walked  with  him  over  the  place.  Laydon  was  keen  enough  to 
see  that  Hagar  had  appealed  to  her  family,  and  that  Ashen- 
dyne  breeding  had  rallied  to  her  support.  He  was  at  once  pro 
voked  and  soothed;  now  conscious  only  of  the  injury  to  his 
healthy  self-love,  and  now  of  a  vague  relief  that,  young  as  he 
still  was,  and  with  that  wonderful  future  all  to  make,  he  really 
was  not  tied  down.  His  very  vanity  would  not  agree  but  that 
the  woman  with  whom  he  had  thought  himself  in  love  must  be 
of  a  superior  type  and  an  undeniable  charm,  but  the  same  van 
ity  conceded  gently  that  to  err  was  mortal,  and  that  there 
were  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  came  out  of  it,  and  that 
he  certainly  had  not  been  fatally  smitten  — on  the  whole,  she, 
poor  little  thing!  had  probably  suffered  the  most  of  the  two. 
Charming  as  she  was,  the  glamour  for  him,  he  conceded,  was 
gone.  He  had  come  off  pretty  well,  after  all. 

When  the  five  days  were  up,  he  felt  positive  regret  at  hav 
ing  to  go,  and  his  good-bye  to  all  the  Ashendynes  was  cordial. 
He  had  already  written  to  Mrs.  LeGrand,  and,  of  course,  to 


144  HAGAR 

his  mother.    He  went;  the  stage  took  him  up  the  moun 
tain.  .  .  . 

"For  all  I  could  see  —  and  I  watched  pretty  closely  — 
there  did  n't  anything  come  of  it,"  remarked  Marie  Caton. 
"On  the  whole,  I  am  rather  glad.  Now  you  can't  hear 
the  rumble  of  the  stage  any  longer.  He's  gone  out  of  the  pic 
ture.  —  Betsy,  stop  writing  and  look  at  the  robin  and  the 
chipmunk  — " 

They  had  the  tiniest  cottage  to  themselves  —  Elizabeth's 
brother  being  an  old-timer  here,  and  his  letter  to  the  pro 
prietor  procuring  them  great  consideration.  There  were  but 
two  rooms  in  the  cottage.  Roof  and  porch,  it  was  sunk  in 
traveller's-joy,  and  in  front  sprang  a  vast  walnut  tree,  and 
beyond  the  walnut  a  span-wide  stream  purled  between  mint 
over  a  slaty  bed.  From  the  porch  you  looked  southward 
over  mountains  and  mountains,  and  every  evening  Antares 
looked  redly  back  at  you.  Now  it  was  morning,  and  wrens 
and  robins  and  catbirds  all  were  singing. 

Elizabeth  looked  up  from  the  table  where  she  was  work 
ing.  "If  I  watch  chipmunks  all  morning,  I'll  never  get  these 
textile  figures  done.  —  Mrs.  Josslyn  said  at  breakfast  that  it 
wasn't  a  good  day  for  fishing,  and  that  she  might  wander 
by." 

"  She  's  coming  now.  I  see  her  in  the  distance.  I  like 
Molly  Josslyn." 

"So  do  I.  —  We  have  n't  been  here  a  week  and  yet  we 
talk  as  though  we  had  known  these  people  always!" 
,-    "Well,  the  fact  that  quite  a  number  knew  your  brother 
made  for  there  being  no  ice  to  break.   And  it  would  be  so 
absurd  not  to  know  one  another  at  the  New  Springs !  as 


THE  NEW   SPRINGS  145 

absurd  as  if  a  shipload  of  people  cast  on  a  desert  island  — 
Here  she  is.  Come  in,  Mrs.  Josslyn!" 

"Thank  you,  I  don't  want  a  chair,"  said  Molly  Josslyn. 
"You  don't  mind  if  I  sit  on  the  edge  of  the  porch  and  dangle 
my  feet,  do  you?  Nor  if  I  take  off  my  hat  and  roll  up  my 
sleeves  so  that  I  can  feel  the  air  on  my  arms?" 

"Not  a  bit.  Take  the  hairpins  out  of  your  hair  and  let  it 
fly." 

"I  wish  that  I  could  cut  it  off  I"  said  Molly  viciously.  "I 
will  some  day!  Pretty  nearly  a  whole  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  out  of  every  twenty-four  gone  in  brushing  and  combing 
and  doing  up  hair!  You  have  to  do  it  in  the  morning  and  the 
middle  of  the  day  and  the  evening.  A  twentieth  part  of  your 
whole  waking  existence!  .  .  .  Oh,  me!" 

"What  a  sigh!" 

"I've  been  in  rocking-chair-and-gossip  land  over  on  the 
big  porch.  I  've  heard  everybody  —  in  a  petticoat  —  who 
wasn't  there  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered.  Of  course,  I 
knew  they  were  eager  to  get  at  me,  and  so  I  was  obliging  and 
came  away." 

Marie  Caton  laughed.  "Miss  Eden  here  is  an  optimist  of 
the  first  water.  If  you  ask  her  she'll  tell  you  that  women  are 
growing  beyond  that  sort  of  thing  —  that  they  don't  sting 
one  another  half  as  much  as  they  used  to!" 

"No,  I  don't  think  they  do,"  said  Mrs.  Josslyn.  "I  think 
that's  getting  apparent  nowadays.  Speaking  for  myself, 
fresh  air  and  out  of  doors  and  swinging  off  by  one's  self 
seem  to  make  a  body  more  or  less  charitable.  But  some  of 
us  have  got  the  habit  yet.  Gnat  or  wasp  or  hornet  or  snake, 
on  they  go!"  she  laughed.  "Over  on  the  porch  it  was  n't 


146  HAGAR 

anything  but  a  little  cloud  of  gnats.  They  were  n't  really 
stinging  —  just  getting  between  your  eyes  and  the  blue 
sky." 

"But  it  is  growing  better  —  it  is,  it  is!"  said  Elizabeth. 
"I  would  n't  give  up  that  belief  for  anything." 

"No,  don't!"/  said  Molly  Josslyn.  "I  like  women  and  like 
to  think  well  of  them." 

A  strong,  rosy  blonde,  she  stood  up  and  stretched  her  arms 
above  her  head.  "I  wish  there  were  a  pool  somewhere,  deep 
enough  to  swim  in!  I'd  like  to  cross  the  Hellespont  this 
morning  —  swim  it  and  swim  back.  —  Christopher  is  com 
ing  to-morrow." 

"Christopher?" 

"My  husband  —  Christopher  Josslyn.  They  don't,"  said 
Mrs.  Josslyn,  "make  them  any  nicer  than  Christopher! 
Christopher  was  my  born  mate."  And  went  away  with  a 
beamy  look,  over  the  grass. 

Marie  spoke  thoughtfully.  "Yesterday  I  heard  one  of  the 
gnats  singing.  It  sang,  'Yes,  rather  handsome,  but  don't  you 
find  her  dreadfully  unfeminine?" 

1  "Oh,  'feminine'!"  said  Elizabeth,  and  went  on  adding 
figures. 

Marie  Caton  took  a  book  from  the  generous  number 
ranged  around  a  jar  of  Black-eyed  Susans  on  the  rustic  table 
in  the  middle  of  the  porch,  but  "The  chipmunks  and  the 
robins  get  so  in  the  way,"  she  presently  dreamily  murmured, 
and  then,  "You  had  just  as  well  put  up  your  work.  Here's 
Judge  Black  and  General  Argyle!" 

Judge  Black  was  sixty-two,  rather  lean  than  stout,  rather 
short  than  tall,  clean-shaven,  with  a  good-looking  counte- 


THE   NEW   SPRINGS  147 

nance  below  grizzled,  close-clipped  hair,  with  a  bald  spot  at 
the  top  like  a  monk's  tonsure.  General  Argyle  was  a  much 
larger  and  taller  man,  big-framed,  wide-girthed,  with  a  well- 
set  head  framed  about  with  shaggy  white  hair.  His  counte 
nance  was  rubicund,  his  voice  mellow.  He  was  sixty-seven,  in 
some  respects  very  old,  and  in  others  quite  young.  Usually, 
at  the  New  Springs,  Colonel  Ashendyne  marched  in  company, 
but  this  morning — "Ashendyne's  got  some  family  conference 
or  other  on  hand.  It's  a  day  off  for  fishing,  ind  nobody  seems 
to  have  a  mind  for  whist  or  poker,  and  the  papers  have  n't 
come.  Argyle  and  I  are  floating  around  like  two  lost  corks 
or  the  Babes  in  the  Wood  — " 

"So  I  said,"  said  General  Argyle  richly,  "let's  stroll  over 
there  and  say  good-morning  to  Tom  Eden's  sister  and  her 
attractive  friend.  —  No,  no;  no  chairs!  We'll  sit  here  on  the 
steps.  As  soon  as  Ashendyne  appears,  we  're  going  after 
young  Coltsworth  and  have  a  turn  in  the  bowling-alley. 
Must  exercise!  —  that's  what  I'm  always  telling  Black 
here—" 

"As  if  I  didn't  exercise,"  said  Judge  Black,  "more  in  a 
day  than  he  does  in  a  week.  —  What  a  pretty  little  porch 
you've  got!  Books,  flowers,  needlework — " 

The  General  surveyed  it,  too.  "It  is  pretty.  Woman's 
touch  —  woman's  touch!" 

.  "That  is  n't  needlework  in  the  basket,"  said  Marie  de 
murely.  "It  's  apples.  Will  you  have  one?" 

"No,  thanks,  Mistress  Eve  —  or  yes,  on  second  thoughts, 
I  will!  What  are  you  reading? — 'The  Doll's  House.' 
Ibsen!" 

"Yes." 


148  HAGAR 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  the  Judge,  "what  young  ladies  are 
coming  to!  I  have  never  had  time,  nor,  I  may  say,  inclina 
tion,  to  read  Ibsen  myself,  but  of  course  I  know  the  kind  of 
thing  he 's  responsible  for.  And,  frankly,  I  should  not  permit 
my  daughter  to  read  that  book!" 

"Oh,"  said  Marie,  "I  don't  think  myself  it  is  a  book  for  a 
child!" 

"  She  's  not  a  child.  She  's  twenty-six.  I  should  dissuade 
my  wife,  too,  from  reading  it." 

"Then  your  wife,"  answered  Marie,  "would  miss  an  il 
luminating  piece  of  literature." 

Elizabeth  came  in  with  her  serene  voice.  "Don't  you 
think,  Judge  Black,  that  we  all  acquire  a  habit  of  judging  a 
writer,  whom  we  have  n't  yet  had  time  to  study  for  ourselves, 
too  much  in  terms  of  some  review  or  other,  or  of  the  mere 
unthinking,  current  talk?  I  think  we  all  do  it.  I  believe 
when  you  read  Ibsen  you  will  feel  differently  about  him." 

"Not  I!"  said  the  Judge.  "I  have  seen  extracts  enough. 
I  tell  you,  Miss  Eden,  the  age  is  reading  too  much  of  such 
decadent  stuff — " 

"Oh,  'decadent'!" 

"And  it  is  read,  amazingly,  by  women.  I  would  rather 
see  my  wife  or  daughter  with  the  old  dramatists  at  their 
worst  in  their  hands  than  with  stuff  like  that  —  !  Overturn 
ing  all  our  concepts,  criticizing  supremacies  —  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Miss  Caton,  but  if  you  knew  how  women,  nowa 
days,  amaze  me — " 

"Stop hectoring, Black," said  the  General  mellowly.  "She's 
not  in  the  dock.  Just  so  that  women  stay  women,  they  can 
fill  their  heads  with  what  stuff  they  will  — " 


THE  NEW   SPRINGS  149 

"Exactly!"  said  Judge  Black.  "Do  you  see  them  staying 
women?" 

"Women  of  the  past,"  said  Elizabeth. 

"That  is  woman,  —  the  women  of  the  past.  There  is  n't 
any  other.  The  eternal  feminine — " 

"I  think  you  are  limiting  the  eternal  and  denying  the  uni 
verse  power  to  evolve,"  said  Elizabeth.  "Why  not  eter 
nally  the  man  of  the  past  ?  Why  not  *  There  is  n't  any  other '  ? 
Why  not  'The  eternal  masculine5?  Why  do  you  change  and 
grow  from  age  to  age?" 

"  I  'm  not  so  sure  that  they  do,"  said  Marie  sotto  voce. 

"Yes,  they  do!  They  grow  and  become  freer  always; 
though  I  think,"  said  Elizabeth  painfully,  "that  they  lag  in 
the  way  they  look  at  women.  —  Well,  if  you  grow,  being  one 
half,  do  you  suppose  that  we  are  not  going  to  grow,  being  the 
other  half?  And  if  you  think  that  the  principle  of  growth  is 
not  in  us,  still  I  should  n't  worry!  If  we  can't  grow,  we 
won't  grow,  and  you  need  n't  fash  yourselves.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  we  can,  we  will  —  and  that  is  all  there  is  about  it. 
And  it  would  n't  do  you  the  least  harm  to  read  Ibsen  —  nor 
to  get  another  definition  of  '  decadent. ' ' 

She  leaned  forward  in  her  chair.  "Do  you  see  that  strip  of 
blanched  grass  there?  —  or  rather  it  was  blanched  yesterday 
when  that  board  over  there  was  lying  upon  it  and  had  lain, 
I  don't  know  how  long!  —  blanched  and  bent  and  sicklied 
over.  Now  look!  It  is  getting  colour  and  standing  straight 
—  only  beginning,  but  it  is  beginning  —  beginning  to  be  on 
terms  with  the  sun!  Well,  that  grass  is  woman  to-day!  The 
heavy  board  is  being  lifted,  and  that's  the  change  and  all 
the  change  —  and  you  find  it ' pernicious'!" 


ijo  HAGAR 

.v  Glowing-cheeked,  she  ceased  speaking.  Judge  Black's 
colour,  too,  had  heightened.  "My  dear  Miss  Eden,  how  did 
all  this  begin?  I'm  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  deny  to 
woman  a  proper  freedom.  I  only  ask  that  it  shan't  go  beyond 
a  certain  point  —  that  it  shan't  threaten  the  unsettling  of  a 
certain  divine  status  quo — " 

"I  doubt  if  a  divine  status  quo  is  ever  unsettled,  Judge 
Black,"  said  Elizabeth.  "But  there —  but  there!"  She 
smiled,  and  she  had  a  very  sweet,  sunny  smile.  "I  did  n't  in 
the  least  mean  to  quarrel!  Tom  will  have  told  you  that  I 
sometimes  use  my  tongue,  and  that's  the  ancient  woman, 
still,  is  n't  it  ?  You  see  I  care  for  women  —  being  one  —  a 
good  deal." 
:  "Let  us,"  said  Marie  Caton,  "talk  about  fishing." 

General  Argyle  chuckled.  "Black  doesn't  think  you 
know  anything  about  fishing.  He  has  to  acknowledge  that 
Mrs.  Josslyn  does  —  but  then  he  thinks  that  she's  a  charm 
ing  lusus  natures.  I  like  to  hear  you  give  it  to  Black.  Pay 
him  back.  He's  always  giving  it  to  me!" 

"That's  right!"  said  Black.  "Pitch  into  me!  Cover  me 
with  obloquy!  Poor  homeless,  friendless  sailor  with  the  pole 
star  mysteriously  shifted  from  its  place — "  ...  . 

"The  homeless,  friendless  sailor  stayed  a  long  time,  even 
with  the  pole  star  shifted,"  remarked  Marie,  forty  minutes 
later. 

'  "I  certainly  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,"  murmured  Eliza 
beth,  her  eyes  upon  the  disappearing  guests,  now  well  on 
their  way  to  the  bowling-alley.  "They  mean  you  never  to 
resent  a  thing  which  they  would  at  once  recognize  for  an  im 
pertinence  if  one  of  themselves  said  it  to  another — " 


THE  NEW   SPRINGS  15 1 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  dub  you  rude,"  said  the  other.  "And 
if  he  found  you  uncomfortable  for  a  minute,  you  made  up  for 
it  afterwards!  You  were  charming  enough,  just  as  charm 
ing  as  if  the  pole  star  had  never  shifted.  He  went  off  still  in 
mind  the  Eastern  King." 

"Ah,"  said  Elizabeth,  "that  is  where  all  of  us  are  weak. 
We  say  the  truth,  and  then  we  bring  in  ' charm'  and  sand 
paper  it  away  again!  It's  going  to  take  another  generation, 
Marie!" 

"Another?"  said  Marie.  "A  dozen,  more  like!  —  Now  I 
suppose  I  can  read  'The  Doll's  House'  in  peace.  —  No,  by 
all  that's  fated  in  this  place,  here  comes  another  guest!" 

This  was  Ralph  Colts  worth,  but  he  made  no  long  tarrying; 
he  was  as  transient  as  a  butterfly.  "Have  you  ladies  seen 
Hagar  Ashendyne?  I  want  her  to  go  to  walk  with  me,  and  I 
can't  find  her  anywhere." 

"No,  we  have  n't  "said  Marie.  "Judge  Black  and  Gen 
eral  Argyle  are  looking  for  you  to  play  tenpins." 

Ralph  smiled  back  at  her.  "Let  them  look!  It  will  do  the 
old  codgers  good.  Do  you  like  this  place?" 

"Yes,  very  much.   Don't  you?" 

"Oh,  I  like  it  so-so!"  said  Ralph.  "It's  a  good  enough 
lotus  land,  but  there's  a  lack  somehow  of  wild,  exciting  ad 
venture.  I  Ve  been  trying  to  read  on  the  hotel  porch.  What 
do  you  think  they're  talking  about  over  there?  Fringed 
doilies!" 

"What  do  you  like  to  do  and  to  talk  about?" 

"Live  things."  He  laughed,  tossed  an  apple  into  the  air 
and  caught  it  again.  "  I  want  first  to  make  fifty  millions,  and 
then  I  want  to  spend  fifty  millions!" 


HAGAR 

1    "What  an  admirable  American  you  are!" 

"Am  I  not?  And  I  vary  it  with  just  wanting  to  be  a  cow 
boy  with  a  six-shooter  on  a  Western  plain  — "  He  tossed  the 
apple  into  the  air  again  and,  watching  it,  missed  the  glimpse 
of  Hagar  which  the  other  two  received.  She  appeared  around 
the  corner  of  a  neighbouring  cottage,  her  face  directed  toward 
the  traveller's-joy  porch,  saw  Coltsworth,  wheeled  and  with 
drew.  He  caught  the  apple,  and  after  gazing  meditatively 
for  a  moment  in  the  direction  of  the  tenpin-alley,  sighed,  and 
said  that  he  supposed  after  all  he  might  as  well  go  help  the 
General  demolish  the  Army  of  the  Potomac.  "That's  what 
he  calls  the  pins  when  they're  set  up.  He  takes  the  biggest 
bowl  and  sends  it  thundering.  I  believe  he  thinks  for  the 
moment  it  is  a  ball  from  one  of  his  old  twenty-pounders.  He 
sees  fire  and  smells  smoke.  Sometimes  he  demolishes  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac  and  sometimes  he  does  n't;  but  he 
never  gets  discouraged.  The  next  cannon  ball  will  surely  do 
the  work!" 

When  he  was  gone,  and  had  been  gone  twenty  minutes  or 
more,  Hagar  reappeared.  She  came  swiftly  across  the  grass, 
mounted  the  porch  steps,  and  stood,  with  a  little  deprecat 
ing  shake  of  her  head  for  the  offered  chair,  by  Elizabeth's 
work-table.  "I  am  not  going  to  stay,  thank  you!  Miss 
Eden,  somebody  told  me  last  night  that  you  had  written  and 
published  books — " 

"Only  text  and  reference  books  —  compilations,"  said 
Elizabeth.  "I  only  do  that  kind  of  unoriginal  work." 

"Yes,  but  a  book  is  a  book,"  said  Hagar.  "What  I  won 
dered  was  if  you  would  n't  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  some 
things.  No  one  in  all  my  connection  writes  —  I  don't  know 


THE  NEW   SPRINGS  153 

any  one  to  go  to.  I  only  want  to  know  plain  things  —  A,  B, 
C's  of  how  to  manage  — " 

"About  a  manuscript,  you  mean?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  know  anything.  I've  read  all  kinds  of  use 
less  things  and  so  little  useful!  For  instance,"  said  Hagar, 
"is  it  wrong  to  write  on  both  sides  of  the  paper?" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

NEW   YORK 

IN  August  —  the  Ashendynes  being  back  at  Gilead  Balm  — 
the  "Young  People's  Home  Magazine"  published  Hagar's 
fairy  story.  Gilead  Balm  was  impressed,  but  not  greatly  im 
pressed.  It  had  the  aristocratic  tradition  as  to  writers;  no 
Ashendyne  had  ever  needed  to  be  one.  There  had  been  editor 
Ashendynes,  in  the  old  fiery,  early,  and  mid-century  times, 
but  editorship  came  out  naturally  from  the  political  stream, 
and  the  political,  with  law,  planting,  and  soldiery,  had  been 
the  Ashendyne  stream.  The  Ashendyne  mind  harked  back 
to  Early  Georgian,  even  to  Stuart  times;  when  you  said 
"writer"  it  saw  something  Grub  Streetish.  In  addition, 
Hagar's  was,  of  course,  only  a  child's  story. 

The  two  hundred  dollars  shrank  in  impressiveness  from 
being  known  of  after  and  not  before  Medway  Ashendyne's 
letter.  But  to  the  eyes  of  her  grandmother  and  her  Aunt 
Serena  the  two  hundred  dollars  was  the  impressive,  the  only 
really  impressive,  thing.  Her  grandmother  advised  that  it 
be  put  in  bank.  Miss  Serena  said  that,  when  she  was  Ha- 
gar's  age,  she  had  had  a  watch  and  chain  for  more  than  two 
years.  "What  would  you  like  to  do  with  it,  Gipsy?"  asked 
Captain  Bob. 

The  colour  came  into  Hagar's  cheeks.  "With  one  half  I 
want  to  get  my  two  winter  dresses  and  my  coat  and  hat3  and 
with  the  other  half  I  want  to  get  books." 


NEW   YORK  155 

"Books!"  exclaimed  the  Ashendynes —  the  Colonel  was 
not  present.  "Why,  are  n't  there  books  enough  here?" 

"They  are  not  the  kind  of  books  I  need." 
i  "Nonsense!"  said  Old  Miss.  "Get  your  winter  clothes  if 
you  wish,  —  though  I  am  sure  that  Medway  means  now  to 
send  the  Colonel  money  for  you,  —  but  save  the  rest.  It  will 
come  in  useful  some  day.  Some  day,  child,  you'll  be  think 
ing  about  your  marriage  clothes." 

"Luna  and  I  came  over  the  hill  just  now  with  Ralph  Colts- 
worth,"  remarked  Captain  Bob  cheerfully,  apropos  of  noth 
ing.  "He  says  he's  studying  hard  —  means  to  catch  up  at 
the  University  and  be  a  credit  to  the  family." 

Miss  Serena  was  talented  in  taking  offence  at  small  things. 
She  had  evolved  the  watch-and-chain  idea  and  she  thought 
it  should  have  received  more  consideration.  In  addition  she 
had  the  kind  of  memory  that  always  holds  the  wrong  things. 
"Books!  I  suppose  you  mean  a  kind  of  books  that  we  cer 
tainly  don't  have  many  of  here!  —  French  novels  and  Dar 
win  and  the  kind  of  books  those  two  Northern  women  were 
reading  this  summer!  Even  when  you  were  a  child  —  don't 
you  remember,  mother?  —  you  had  a  perfect  talent  for  get 
ting  your  hands  on  debasing  literature!  I  supposed  you  had 
outgrown  it.  I'm  sure  Mrs.  LeGrand  never  encouraged  it. 
A  hundred  dollars  worth  of  books !  —  and  I  suppose  you  are 
to  choose  them !  Well,  if  I  were  father,  I  'd  look  over  the  list 
first." 

"Aunt  Serena,"  said  Hagar,  with  a  Spanish  gravity  and 
courtesy,  "there  are  times  when  I  understand  the  most  vio 
lent  crimes.  .  .  .  Yes ;  I  know  you  don't  know  what  I  mean." 

That  was  in  August.    September  passed  and  part  of 


Ij6  HAGAR 

October,  and  then,  late  in  that  month,  Hagar  went  to  New 
York. 

Medway  Ashendyne  and  his  wife  were  travelling  in  the 
East.  Next  year  or  the  year  after,  they  might,  Medway 
wrote,  be  in  America.  In  the  meantime,  Hagar  must  have 
advantages.  He  had  not  the  least  idea,  he  wrote  his  father, 
what  kind  of  a  person  she  was.  Her  letters  were  formal,  tone 
less  and  colourless  to  a  degree.  He  hoped  she  had  not  inher 
ited  —  But  whatever  she  had  inherited,  she  was,  of  course, 
his  daughter,  and  he  must  take  care  of  her,  being  now  in  a 
position  properly  to  do  so.  His  wife  suggested,  for  the 
moment,  a  winter  in  New  York,  properly  chaperoned.  The 
money  would  be  forthcoming  (there  followed  a  memoran 
dum  of  a  handsome  sum  placed  in  bank  to  the  Colonel's 
credit).  He  could,  he  knew,  leave  it  to  his  father  and  mother 
to  see  that  she  was  properly  chaperoned.  His  wife  had 
thought  of  making  certain  suggestions,  but  upon  talking  it 
over  together,  they  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that,  at  the 
moment,  at  least,  it  would  be  wisest  not  to  interfere  with 
the  Gilead  Balm  order  and  way  of  life.  It  was  admirably 
suited,  he  judged,  for  a  young  girl's  bringing  up  —  much 
better  than  the  modern  American  way  of  doing  things.  Only 
in  France  —  or  the  Orient  —  was  the  jeune  fille  really  pre 
served. 

The  Colonel  wrote  to  Mrs.  LeGrand.  Mrs.  LeGrand  re 
turned  one  of  her  long,  fluent  letters.  First  of  all,  congratu 
lations  that  Hagar  had  come  to  her  senses  about  Mr.  Laydon, 
then  —  "Now  as  to  New  York  — " 

Sylvie  was  going  to  New  York  too,  —  going  to  have  sing 
ing  lessons,  for  she  had  a  very  sweet  voice,  and  every  one 


NEW   YORK  157 

agreed  that  it  would  be  a  mistake  not  to  give  it  the  best 
training.  The  problem  of  how  to  manage  for  Sylvie  had  re 
ceived  the  following  solution,  and  Mrs.  LeGrand  proffered 
it  as  a  possible  way  to  manage  for  Hagar  also.  There  was 
Powhatan  Maine's  family  in  New  York  —  Powhatan  him 
self  and  Bessie  and  their  widowed  daughter,  Mrs.  Bolt,  with 
her  two  children.  They  lived  well,  "in  our  quiet,  homelike, 
Southern  fashion,  of  course."  Powhatan  was  a  solid  lawyer 
in  a  solid  firm.  Sylvie  had  paid  them  a  visit  once  before,  but 
of  course  this  year  it  was  a  question  of  her  being  in  New 
York  for  months  and  months.  Now,  ordinarily,  the  Maines 
would  not  have  heard  of  such  a  thing,  but  this  disastrous 
year,  with  everybody  failing,  Powhatan  had  lost  heavily  in 
stocks  and  apparently  they  were  having  to  economize.  At 
any  rate,  Bessie  was  willing,  just  for  this  year,  to  take  Sylvie 
under  her  wing  and  to  let  her  pay  for  her  room  and  board. 
The  Maines'  house  was  a  good,  big  one,  and  Mrs.  LeGrand 
had  very  little  doubt  that,  just  as  a  family  favour,  Bessie 
would  be  willing  to  receive  Hagar  on  similar  terms.  Bessie 
would  certainly  stipulate  that  the  arrangement  should  be  a 
quiet  one,  just  between  themselves,  and  that  Hagar,  no  less 
than  Sylvie,  should  be  regarded  merely  as  a  young  friend  and 
connection,  visiting  her  that  winter.  This  understood,  Bessie 
would  look  after  the  two  as  if  they  were  her  own.  It  was  for 
tunate  that  neither  Sylvie  nor  Hagar  was  "out,"  for  the 
Maines  were  in  mourning.  But  Powhatan  and  Bessie  knew 
a  great  many  people,  and  the  two  girls  would  probably 
see  company  enough.  "You  remember  Bessie,  don't  you? 
Good-nature  itself!  Nothing  pleases  her  so  much  as  hav 
ing  people  happy  about  her."  Then,  too,  there  would  be 


IS8  HAGAR 

Rachel  Bolt.  She  could  take  Hagar  to  the  theatre  and  to  con 
certs  and  the  picture  galleries  and  where  not.  "The  Maines 
are  all  members  of  St.  Timothy's  —  the  Bishop's  nephew's 
church,  you  know."  —  In  fine,  Mrs.  LeGrand  advised  that 
the  Ashendynes  write  at  once  to  Mrs.  Maine.  It  was  done 
and  Hagar's  winter  soon  arranged  for. 

New  York! .  .  .  She  had  dreamed  of  great  cities,  but  she 
had  never  seen  one.  The  night  on  the  sleeping-car  —  her 
first  night  on  any  sleeping-car  —  she  stayed  awake  and 
watched  through  the  window  the  flying  clouds  and  the  moon 
and  stars  between,  and,  underneath,  the  fugitive  landscape. 
There  was  a  sense  of  exaltation,  of  rushing  on  with  the  rush 
ing  world.  Now  and  again,  as  the  train  creaked  and  swung, 
and  once,  as  another  roared  past,  there  came  moments  of 
fascinated  terror.  Rushing  train  and  rushing  world,  all  gal 
loping  wildly  through  the  night,  and  in  front,  surely  some 
bottomless  precipice! .  .  .  She  and  Sylvie  had  a  section,  and 
though  Hagar  had  offered  to  take  the  upper  berth,  it  had 
ended  in  their  having  it  put  back  and  sleeping  together.  Now 
Hagar  sat  up  in  bed,  and  looked  at  the  sleeping  Sylvie. 
There  was  a  dim,  blended  light,  coming  from  the  lamp  above 
and  the  moonlight  night  without.  Sylvie  lay,  half-uncov 
ered,  fast  asleep,  her  hair  in  glossy  braids,  her  pretty  face, 
shell-tinted,  sunk  in  the  pillow,  her  breast  quietly  rising  and 
falling.  Hagar  had  an  intense,  impersonal,  abstract  passion 
for  beauty  wherever  and  in  whatever  form  it  resided.  Now, 
limbs  beneath  her,  her  arms  nursing  each  other,  she  sat  and 
regarded  the  sleeping  Sylvie  with  a  pure,  detached  admira 
tion.  The  train  roared  into  a  station;  she  drew  the  window 
curtain  until  it  roared  out  again,  then  bared  the  window,  and 


NEW   YORK  159 

sat  and  watched  the  flying  dark  woods  and  the  silver  surface 
of  some  wide  water.  New  York  —  New  York  —  New 
York.  .  .  . 

Sylvie  was  a  travelled  lady.  Sylvie  had  been  to  New  York 
before.  She  had  been  to  Florida  and  New  Orleans  and  Nia 
gara  and  Saratoga.  She  could  play  sweetly,  not  arrogantly, 
—  Sylvie  was  not  arrogant,  except,  perhaps,  a  little  when  it 
came  to  good  looks,  —  the  part  of  guide  and  mentor  to  Hagar. 
In  the  Jersey  City  station  she  kept  a  reassuring  touch  upon 
Hagar's  arm  down  the  long  platform  to  the  gate.  "The  New 
York  Ferry  has  a  sign  over  it.  Even  if  they  don't  meet  us,  I 
know  how  to  manage  —  Oh,  there's  Cousin  Powhatan!" 

It  was  a  pearl-grey  morning,  going  over,  with  a  mist  that 
was  almost  a  fog  hanging  upon  the  water  and  making  un 
earthly  and  like  a  mirage  the  strange  sky-line  before  them. 
There  were  not  so  many  huge,  tall  buildings  as  there  would 
be  in  after  years,  but  they  were  beginning.  The  mist  drifted, 
opening  and  closing,  and  to  the  mist  was  added  the  fairy  gar 
lands  and  pennants  of  white  steam.  Out  of  the  luminous 
haze  grew  white  ferryboats  and  low  barges,  and  here  passed 
an  opalescent  shape  like  a  vast  moth  wing.  "A  sailboat," 
said  Hagar  under  her  breath.  The  air  was  chill  and  clinging. 
Sylvie  and  Captain  Powhatan  Maine  preferred  to  sit  and 
talk  within  the  cabin,  but  Hagar  remained  outside.  She 
stood  with  her  hands  lightly  touching  the  rail,  her  eyes  wide. 
Another  sailboat  slipped  past.  She  turned  and  looked  along 
the  widening  water,  oceanward,  and  in  a  rift  of  the  grey  pearl 
clouds  she  seemed  to  see,  at  a  great  distance,  a  looming  wo 
man  shape.  A  salt  odour  filled  her  nostrils.  "Oh,  the  sea! 
I  smell  the  sea!" 


160  HAGAR 

.  The  ferryboat  glided  into  its  slip,  the  bell  rang,  the  chains 
rattled;  out  resonantly,  from  the  lower  deck,  passed  the  great 
dray  horses  and  heavy  wagons;  the  passengers  disembarked; 
a  crowd  hurried,  in  column,  toward  the  Elevated.  Half-be 
wildered,  Hagar  found  herself  mounting  long  flights  of  steps, 
passing  through  a  gateway,  entering  a  train,  which  at  once, 
with  a  shriek,  began  to  run  upon  a  level  with  second-story 
windows.  She  saw  dingy  red-brick  factory  and  tenement 
buildings  close,  close  to  her  face;  fire-escapes  and  staring 
windows  with  squalid  or  horribly  tawdry  rooms  beyond;  on 
the  window-sills  spindling,  starved  plants  in  ancient,  bat 
tered  tin  cans,  children's  faces,  women  leaning  out,  children, 
children,  children  —  "We  have  to  go  quite  far  uptown,"  said 
Captain  Maine.  "Well,  and  what  do  you  girls  want  to  see 
first?" 

He  was  a  short,  stout,  gallant  gentleman  with  a  fierce  grey 
mustache.  Sylvie  talked  for  both.  Hagar  nodded  her  head 
or  commanded  a  smile  when  manners  seemed  to  indicate  it, 
but  her  mind  was  dealing  with  a  nightmare.  "Was  this  — 
was  this  New  York?"  Once  she  turned  her  head  toward  their 
escort,  but  something  told  her  that  if,  indeed,  she  asked  the 
absurd  question,  he  would  say,  "Why,  yes!  Don't  you  like 
it?" 

Where  were  the  domes  and  colonnades  ?  Where  the  clean 
ness  and  fairness  —  where  the  order  and  beauty  ?  Where  was 
the  noble,  great  city  ?  Where  were  the  happy  people  ?  She 
tried  to  tell  herself,  first,  that  all  these  were  there,  that  this 
was  but  a  chance  ugly  street  the  train  was  going  through  . .  . 
but  they  went  through  it  for  miles,  and  she  caught  glimpses 
of  so  many  other  streets  that  seemed  no  better !  And  then  she 


NEW   YORK  161 

tried  to  tell  herself,  that,  after  all,  she  must  have  known  it 
would  be  something  like  this.  She  had  seen  before,  on  a 
small  scale,  in  a  small  city,  decrepit  buildings  and  decrepit 
people  of  all  ages.  Poverty,  dirt,  and  disease.  .  .  .  One  city 
would  be  like  another,  only  larger.  .  .  .  She  must  have  known. 
But  knowing  did  not  seem  to  have  helped  —  or  perhaps  she 
had  never  really  seen,  nor  thought  it  out.  She  was  tired  and 
overstrained;  a  horror  came  upon  her.  She  looked  through  a 
window  in  to  a  room  hung  with  a  ghastly  green,  torn,  and  soiled 
paper.  Men  and  women  were  working  in  it,  bent  over  a  long 
table,  working  haggardly  and  fast,  the  shirts  of  the  men, 
the  bodices  of  the  women,  open  at  the  throat.  Another  win 
dow  —  a  wretched,  blowsy  woman  and  a  young  man  with  a 
bloated,  unwholesome  face;  —  another,  and  an  old,  old  wo 
man  with  a  crying  child,  whom  she  struck;  —  then  mere 
blank  windows  or  windows  with  starveling  geraniums  in 
broken  pots;  and  beneath  and  around  and  everywhere  voices 
and  heavy  wheels,  and  the  train  rushing  on  upon  its  trestle 
high  in  the  air.  Something  black  and  cold  and  hopeless  rolled 
over  Hagar's  soul.  It  was  as  though  the  train  were  droning, 
droning,  a  melancholy  text. 

"Hagar!  What  is  the  matter?  You  looked  as  though  you 
were  going  to  faint!" 

But  Hagar  was  n't  going  to  faint.  She  pulled  herself  to 
gether.  "No,  no!  It  isn't  anything!  I  was  tired,  I  sup 
pose  — " 

"Must  n't  faint  in  New  York,"  said  Captain  Maine 
genially.  "You'll  get  run  over  if  you  do." 

On  went  the  Elevated,  and  the  walls  of  windows  grew 
vaguely  better  —  or  the  shock  of  surprise  was  over  —  or  the 


162  HAGAR 

armoured  being  within  shouldered  away  a  hampering  un- 
happiness.  New  York  —  New  York  —  New  York!  Hope 
and  vision  sprang  afresh.  The  windows  and  the  houses  in 
which  they  were  set  decidedly  bettered.  There  were  distant 
glimpses  of  fine  buildings,  spires  of  churches,  trees  that  must 
be  in  a  park.  The  sun,  which  had  been  all  morning  hidden  by 
clouds,  came  suddenly  forth  and  flooded  the  world  with  Oc 
tober  gold.  The  gulf  between  what  she  had  dreamed  and 
what  she  saw  perceptibly  narrowed,  though  it  was  still  there 
and  though  it  still  ached.  "Here  we  are!"  said  Captain 
Maine,  and  folded  his  newspaper.  Out  of  the  train  upon  a 
platform  —  then  more  stairs,  this  time  running  downward  — 
then  a  block  or  two  of  walking,  in  the  crisp  air,  then  a  very 
different  street  from  those  the  train  had  rushed  through  and 
very  different  houses.  "Here  we  are!"  said  their  host  again, 
and  they  mounted  a  brownstone  stoop.  A  coloured  maid 
opened  the  door  —  they  passed  into  a  narrow  reception  hall 
with  the  Maines'  ancestral  tall  clock  standing  by  the  stair 
and  on  the  opposing  walls  engravings  of  Southern  generals; 
thence,  through  folding  doors,  into  a  cool,  deep  parlour  and 
the  embrace  of  Mrs.  Maine. 

Mrs.  Maine  was  large  and  sleepy  and  quiet  and  dark,  with 
a  nebulous  personality.  Everybody  who  knew  her  said  that 
she  was  extremely  good-natured,  while  a  few  added  that  she 
was  too  indolent  to  be  irascible,  and  a  fair  number  called  it 
native  kindliness  and  adduced  a  range  of  respectable  inci 
dents.  No  one  ever  hinted  at  intellectuality,  and  she  cer 
tainly  did  not  shine  in  conversation;  she  was  not,  apparently, 
socially  ambitious,  and  nobody  could  be  said  to  take  less 
trouble  —  and  yet  a  number  of  people  —  chiefly  South- 


NEW   YORK  163 

erners  dwelling  in  New  York,  the  more  decorative  and 
prosperous  of  St.  Timothy's  congregation,  and  Powhatan 
Maine's  legal  associates  and  acquaintances  —  exhibited  a 
certain  partiality  for  the  Maine  house.  Powhatan  told  good 
war  stories  and  darky  stories;  almost  always  there  appeared 
something  good  to  eat,  with  a  Southern  name  and  flavour; 
and  Mrs.  Maine  was  as  unobtrusive  and  comfortable  to  get 
on  with  as  the  all-pervasive  ether.  There  was  nothing  riot 
ous  nor  especially  buoyant  in  the  house;  it  was  rather  dim 
and  dull  and  staid;  but  people  who  had  begun  to  visit  the 
Maines  twenty  years  before  visited  still.  Perhaps  most  of 
them  were  dim  and  dull  and  staid  themselves.  Others,  per 
haps,  liked  the  occasional  salt  of  an  environment  which  was 
not  habitually  theirs.  The  house  itself  was  deep  and  for  a 
New  York  dwelling  wide,  cool,  high-ceilinged,  and  dark,  with 
a  gleam  of  white  marble  mantel-pieces  and  antiquated  crystal 
chandeliers,  with  some  ancient  Virginia  furniture  and  some 
ebony  and  walnut  abominations  of  the  'seventies.  Every 
thing  was  a  little  worn,  tending  toward  shabbiness;  but  a 
shabbiness  not  extreme,  as  yet  only  comfortable,  though 
with  a  glance  toward  a  more  helpless  old  age.  There  were  a 
fair  number  of  books,  some  portraits  and  good,  time-yel 
lowed  engravings.  There  were  four  coloured  servants  beside 
the  nurse  for  Mrs.  Bolt's  children.  The  children,  Charley  and 
Betty,  were  pudgy,  quaint  elves  of  three  and  five.  Charley, 
the  younger,  had  been  blind  from  birth. 

That  evening,  Rachel  Bolt  came  before  bedtime  into  Ha- 
gar's  room.  "May  I  sit  and  talk  a  little  while?  Sylvie  and 
mother  and  father  and  Dick  Dabney,  who  came  in  a  little 
while  ago,  are  playing  duplicate  whist." 


164  HAGAR 

"Of  course  you  may.  It's  such  a  pleasant  room  you've 
given  me." 

Rachel  turned  in  her  chair  and  regarded  it  from  wall  to  wall 
somewhat  cynically.  "Well,  I  suppose  at  the  first  blush  it 
may  seem  so.  It  is,  however,  rather  shabby.  We  meant  to 
do  it  over  again  this  year,  but  times  are  so  tremendously 
hard  that  we  gave  it  up  with  a  lot  of  other  things.  —  What  I 
really  came  in  for  was  to  ask  what  kind  of  things  and  places 
and  people  you'd  like  to  see  this  winter.  It's  agreed  with 
your  grandfather  that  I'm  to  take  you  around." 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  be  willing  to  do  it — " 

"Oh,  I'm  to  be  paid  for  doing  it!  I'll  be  spinning  my 
spring  outfit  and  Betty's  and  Charley's  while  we  gallivant. 
But  I  do  not  mean"  —  she  laughed  —  "that  it  is  going  to  be 
hard  or  disagreeable  work,  unless"  —  she  ended  coolly  — 
"you  want  to  go  to  places  where  I  don't  want  to  go." 

"To  those  places,"  said  Hagar  seriously,  "I  will  go 
alone." 

"Then,"  said  Rachel,  "we  will  get  along  very  well.  . .  . 
What  do  you  want  to  do  anyhow?" 

"I  want  to  feel  around  for  a  while.  And  I'd  like  to  be 
shown  how  to  go  and  how  to  manage,  just  at  first.  But  after 
that  I  hope  you  won't  mind  if  I  just  wander  about  by  myself." 
She  lifted  her  long  arms  above  her  head  in  a  gesture,  harassed 
and  restless.  "I  think  there  are  people  to  whom  solitude 
means  as  much  as  food  or  sleep." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  get  up  and  say  good-night?"  asked 
Rachel  promptly. 

Hagar  gave  a  warm  little  laugh.  "Not  yet  awhile.  I'm 
not  that  greedy  and  sleepy.  I  strive  to  be  temperate.  . . . 


NEW   YORK  165 

What  I  want  to  see  first  are  pictures.  I  have  never  seen  any 
—  barring  those  at  home  and  at  Eglantine." 

"Well,  we  can  go  to  the  Metropolitan  to-morrow." 

"I  should  like  that.  Then  I  want  to  hear  music.  I  have 
never  heard  any  to  count." 

"There'll  be  concerts  and  the  opera  later.  The  opera  is,  of 
course,  very  expensive,  but  I  understand  that  your  father 
wants  you  to  do  pretty  well  what  you  wish.  If  you  don't 
mind  being  high  up,  we  can  do  a  good  deal  of  it  reasonably." 

"Then  let  us  go  high  up." 

"At  the  moment  there  are  n't  even  concerts.  We  might 
find  an  organ  recital,  and  on  Sundays  there  is  music  in  the 
park." 

"Day  after  to-morrow  is  Sunday.  I'll  go  and  hear  that. 
Then  I  want  to  go  to  the  theatre." 

"Most  of  that  will  come  later,  too.  Are  you  fond  of  the 
theatre?" 

"I  don't  know.  That  is  why  I  want  to  go  —  to  find  out. 
I  have  never  seen  but  three  plays." 

* '  Wh at  an  awfully  lucky  person !  What  were  they  ? " 

"One  —  I  was  a  little  girl  and  I  went  to  Richmond  for  two 
days  —  was  l Maria  Stuart."  Janauschek  played  it.  The 
next  was  in  the  small  town  near  where  I  live.  It  was  rather 
terribly  done,  I  believe,  and  it  kept  me  awake  for  a  week 
afterward.  I  was  fifteen.  It  was  'The  Corsican  Brothers.' 
Then"  —  said  Hagar,  "last  winter  I  saw*  Romeo  and  Juliet.' 
.  .  .  They  did  n't  seem  like  plays.  They  seemed  like  life,  — 
sometimes  terrible  and  sometimes  beautiful.  I  want  to  go  to 
find  out  if  it  is  always  so." 

"It  is  n't,"  said  Rachel.   "You  are  inexperienced." 


166  HAGAR 

"There  is  a  natural  history  museum  here,  is  n't  there?" 

"Yes,  a  large  one." 

"I  want  to  go  there.  I  want  to  see  malachite  and  chryso- 
prase  and  jade,  and  the  large  blue  butterflies  and  the  apes  up 
to  man  and  the  models  of  the  pterodactyl  and  dinosaur  and 
a  hundred  other  things." 

"Until  now,"  said  Rachel,  "I  have  thought  that  Charley 
and  Betty  had  the  largest  possible  appetites.  What  else?" 

"Am  I  tiring  you?" 

"Not  a  bit.  Besides,  it  is  business.  I  came  in  here  to  get 
a  catalogue  raisonne.  —  It's  rather  curious  that  you  should 
have  such  a  passion  for  minerals  and  species  and  prehistoric 
things." 

-  "Is  it?  Well,  I  have  it,"  said  Hagar.   She  put  her  arms 
again^behind  and  above  her  head.   "  If  you  want  to  know  All, 
you  must  live  All  —  though  in  honour  preferring  one  to  the 
other." 

•  Beside  her,  on  the  little  table  by  the  hearth,  was  a  paper 
and  pencil.   Suddenly  she  unlocked  her  hands,  bent  over  and 
drew  a  sheet  of  paper  from  under  the  book  with  which  she 
had  covered  it  on  Rachel's  entrance.   "I  was  trying  to  write 
something  when  you  came  in.   It  is  rough  and  crude,  —  just 
the  skeleton,  —  but  it's  something  like  what  I  mean  and 
what  I  want."     She   held  it  out;  then,  with  a  deprecating 
gesture  and  a  shy  flush,   "If  it  does  n't  bore  you  — " 

Rachel  took  it  and  read. 

"God  that  am  I, 
I  that  am  God, 
Mass  and  Motion  and  Psyche 
Inextricably  wound! 

We  began  not;  we  «nd  not; 


NEW  YORK  167 

And  a  sole  purpose  have  we,  — 

Intimately  to  know 

And  exalted  to  taste, 

In  wisdom  and  beauty 

Perpetually  heightening, 

The  Absolute,  Infinite, 

One  Substance  Who  Is! 

In  joy  to  name 

In  wisdom  to  know 

All  flames  and  all  fruits 

From  that  hearth  and  that  tree! 

To  name  infinite  modes, 

Eternally  to  name, 

To  name  as  we  grow, 

And  grow  as  we  name. 

And  stars  shall  arise, 

Beyond  stars  that  we  see, 

And  self-knowledge  shall  come, 

To  me  in  God,  God  in  me  — " 

Rachel  put  it  down.  " I'll  think  that  out  a  little.  We  Ve 
never  had  any  one  in  the  house  just  like  you." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Hagar,  "  that  Sunday  morning  I  would 
go  to  the  Catholic  Cathedral.  If  you  tell  me  the  way  I  can 
find  it—  " 

"You  are  not  a  Catholic?" 

"No.   But  I  have  always  wanted  so  to  smell  incense. — 

"'When  from  the  censer  clouds  of  fragrance  roll  — '" 

"You  are  rich  in  differences,"  said  Rachel.  "I  hope  we'll 
get  along  well  together.  I  think  we  will.  Is  there  anything 
else  you  can  think  of  at  the  moment?" 

"I  want  to  see  the  Salvation  Army." 

"That  may  be  managed,  if  you  are  willing  to  take  it  in 
detachments." 


168  HAGAR 

"And  I  want — oh,  I  want  to  go  somewhere  where  I  can 
really  see  the  ocean!" 

"I'll  get  father  to  take  us  down  to  Brighton  Beach.  It 
is  n't  too  late,  this  mild  weather." 

"This  morning,"  said  Hagar,  "we  came  through —  miles,  I 
think  —  of  places  where  poor  people  live.  I  want  to  see  all 
that  again." 

"  It  is  n't  very  edifying.  But  we  can  get  under  the  wing  of 
some  association  and  do  a  little  mild  slumming." 

"I  want  to  go  down  there  alone  and  often  — " 

"That,"  said  Rachel,  "is  impossible." 

"Why?" 

"  It  is  not  done.  Besides,  it  would  be  dangerous." 

"  Dangerous  ? 

"You  might  take  any  disease — or  get  into  any  kind  of 
trouble.  There  are  all  sorts  of  traps." 

"Why  should  they  set  traps?" 

"Oh,  all  kinds  of  horrors  happen.  —  Just  look  at  the  news 
papers!  A  girl  —  alone  —  you'd  be  subjected  to  insult." 

Hagar  sighed.  "I've  always  been  alone.  And  I  don't  see 
that  we  are  not  subjected  to  insult  everywhere.  I  could  never 
feel  more  insulted  than,  sometimes,  I  have  been  at  home." 

Rachel,  turning  in  her  chair,  darted  at  her  a  lightning-like 
glance  of  comprehension.  "Well,  that's  true  enough,  though 
I  never  heard  it  put  into  words  before!  It's  true.  .  .  .  But  it 
remains  that  with  our  present  conventions,  you  must  have 
company  when  you  go  to  see  how  the  other  half  lives." 

"The  other  half?" 

"It's  a  term:  One  half  of  us  does  n't  know  how  the  other 
half  lives.", 


NEW   YORK  169 

"  I  see,"  said  Hagar.  "  Well,  I  '11  be  glad  when  I  get  out  of 
fractions." 

Both  laughed.  A  kind  of  soft,  friendly  brightness  prevailed 
in  the  third-floor  back  bedroom.  There  was  no  open  fire, 
but  they  sat  on  either  side  of  the  little  squat  table,  and  the 
reading-lamp  with  a  yellowy  globe  did  the  job  of  a  common 
luminary.  The  light  reached  out  to  each  and  linked  them 
together.  Rachel  Bolt  was  small  and  dark  and  slender.  Much 
of  the  time  she  passed  for  a  cynical  and  rather  melancholy 
young  woman ;  then,  occasionally,  sheaths  parted  like  opening 
wings  and  something  showed  that  was  vivid  and  deep  and 
duskily  luminous.  The  next  moment  the  rift  might  close,  but 
there  had  been  received  an  impression  of  the  inward  depths. 
She  had  been  married  at  eighteen,  her  first  child  born  a  year 
later.  She  was  now  twenty-five,  and  had  been  a  widow  for 
two  years.  In  worldly  wisdom  and  savoirfaire,  and  in  several 
emotional  experiences  she  was  well  ahead  of  Hagar,  but  in 
other  respects  the  brain  ways  of  the  younger  in  years  were 
deeper  and  older.  Whatever  differences,  their  planes  were 
near  enough  for  a  comprehension  that,  continually  deepening, 
passed  before  long  into  the  country  of  lasting  friendship. 


CHAPTER  XV 

LOOKING  FOR  THOMASINE 

WHEN  Hagar  had  been  ten  days  in  New  York,  she  went  early 
one  afternoon  to  find  Thomasine.  She  had  the  address,  and 
upon  showing  it  to  Rachel  the  latter  had  pronounced  it  "poor 
but  respectable,"  adding,  "Are  you  sure  you  ought  to  go 
alone?" 

"' Ought  to  go  alone?  —  ought  to  go  alone?'  —  I  am  so 
tired  of  that  phrase  'ought  to  go  alone'!"  said  Hagar.  "At 
Gilead  Balm  they  said, '  Don't  go  beyond  the  Mile-and-a-Half 
Cedar!'  You  say  yourself  that  I  couldn't  get  lost,  and  I 
was  brought  up  with  Thomasine,  and  Jim  and  his  wife  are 
perfectly  good  people." 

Downstairs,  as  she  was  passing  the  parlour  doors,  Mrs, 
Maine  called  to  her  from  within.  "Where  are  you  going, 
dear?"  Hagar  entered  and  explained.  "That  is  very  nice  of 
you  to  look  her  up,  but  do  you  think  you  ought  to  go  alone?" 
Hagar  explained  that,  too;  whereupon  Mrs  Maine  patted 
her  hand  and  told  her  to  trot  along,  but  always  to  be  careful ! 
As  the  front  door  closed  after  her,  her  hostess  resumed  her 
box  of  chocolates  and  the  baby  sacque  she  was  knitting.  "It 
is  n't  as  though  I  had  promised  to  give  her,  or  to  make  Ra 
chel  give  her,  continual  chaperonage!  To  look  after  her  in  a 
general  way  is  all  that  could  possibly  be  expected.  Besides, 
it's  foolish  always  to  be  nervous  about  people!"  She  took  a 
chocolate  cream  and  began  the  sleeve.  "  Medway  Ashendyne, 


LOOKING  FOR  THOMASINE  171 

with  all  those  millions,  is  n't  doing  very  much  for  her.  She 
could  n't  dress  more  plainly  if  she  tried.  I  wonder  what  he 
means  to  do  with  her  eventually.  Perhaps  he  does  n't  mean 
anything  —  just  to  let  things  drift.  ..." 

Hagar  knew  how  to  orientate  herself  very  well.  She  took 
the  surface  car  going  in  the  right  direction,  and  when  she  had 
travelled  some  distance  she  left  it  and  took  a  cross-town  car. 
This  brought  her  to  the  block  she  wished.  Out  of  the  jingling 
car,  across  a  street  of  push-carts  and  drays  and  hurrying, 
dodging  people,  she  stood  upon  the  broken  and  littered  pave 
ment  a  moment  to  look  about  her.  The  houses  were  tall  and 
dreary;  once  good,  a  house  to  a  family,  but  now  not  so  good, 
and  several  families  to  a  house.  The  corners  were  occupied 
by  larger  buildings,  unadorned  and  jerry-built  and  ugly,  each 
with  a  high-sounding  name,  each  containing  "flats";  —  flats 
and  flats  and  flats,  each  with  its  ground  floor  occupied 
by  small  stores  —  unprosperous  greengrocer,  unprosperous 
butcher,  poor  chemist,  prosperous  saloon,  and  what  not.  It 
was  a  grimy,  chilly  grey  afternoon  with  more  than  a  hint  of 
the  approaching  winter.  All  voices  seemed  raw  and  all  col 
ours  cold.  Among  the  children  playing  on  the  pavement  and 
in  areaways  or  on  high,  broken,  entrance  steps,  there  sounded 
more  crying  than  laughing.  Dirty  papers  were  blown  up  and 
down;  there  floated  an  odour  of  stale  beer;  an  old-clothes  man 
went  by, ringing  a  bell  and  crying  harshly,  "Old  clothes !  Old 
clothes!  Got  any  rags?"  Hagar  stood  with  contracted  brows. 
She  shivered  a  little.  "Why,  Thomasine  should  not  live  in 
a  place  like  this!"  She  looked  about  her.  "Who  should?" 
She  had  a  vision  of  Thomasine  playing  ring  around-a-rosy, 
Thomasine  looking  for  four-leaved  clovers. 


172  HAGAR 

But  when  she  climbed  to  the  third  floor  of  one  of  the  corner 
buildings,  and,  standing  in  the  perpetual  twilight  of  the  land 
ing-way,  rang  the  bell  of  a  door  from  which  much  of  the  paint 
had  been  scarred,  she  found  that  Thomasine  did  not  live 
there. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  gaunt,  raw-boned  woman. 
"Thomasine  Dale?  Did  she  live  with  Marietta  Green  and 
Jim?" 

"Yes.   She  is  Jim's  niece." 

"Well,  she  don't  live  here  now." 

"May  I  see  Jim  or  his  wife?" 

"They  don't  live  here  neither." 

The  door  across  the  landing  opened,  and  a  stout  woman 
in  a  checked  apron  looked  out.  "Was  you  looking  for  the 
Greens?" 

"Yes,  please." 

"If  you'll  come  in  and  set  a  minute,  I'll  tell  you  about 
them.  I've  got  asthmy,  and  there's  an  awful  draught  comes 
up  those  steps." 

Hagar  sat  down  in  an  orange  plush  rocking-chair  and  the 
stout  woman,  having  removed  her  apron,  took  the  green  and 
purple  sofa. 

"There  now!  I  meant  to  mend  that  carpet!"  —  and  she 
covered  the  hole  with  the  sole  of  her  shoe.  "I  am  as  fond  as 
I  can  be  of  the  Greens!  Jim's  a  good  man,  and  if  Marietta 
wa' n't  so  delicate  she'd  manage  better.  The  children  are 
nice  youngsters,  too.  .  .  .  Well,  I'm  sorry  they've  gone,  but 
Jim  hurt  his  arm  down  in  the  Works  and  Marietta  could  n't 
seem  to  get  strong  again  after  the  last  baby,  and  everybody's 
cutting  wages  when  they  ain't  turning  men  off  short,  and 


LOOKING  FOR   THOMASINE  173 

Jim's  turn  come,  for  all  he's  always  been  good  and  sober  and 
a  good  workman.  First  the  Works  hurt  his  arm,  and  then  it 
said  that  he  was  n't  so  useful  now;  and  then  it  said  that  it  had 
seen  for  a  long  time  that  it  would  have  to  economize,  and  the 
men  could  choose  between  cut  wages  or  no  wages  at  all, 
and  Jim  was  one  of  them  it  said  it  to.  So  he  had  to  take  the 
cut."  She  began  to  cough  and  wheeze  and  then  to  pant  for 
breath.  "Did  you  —  ever  have  —  the  asthmy ?  I 'm  —  going 
off  —  with  it  —  some  day.  Glass  of  water?  Yes  —  next 
room — cup  by  the  sink.  .  .  .  Thank  you  —  child!  You're 
real  helpful.  —  What  was  I  saying?  Oh,  yes  —  't  was  Jim 
and  Marietta  and  the  children  and  Thomasine  who  had 


to  economize." 


;    "Where  are  they  gone?"  asked  Hagar  sorrowfully. 

"It  isn't  so  awful  far  from  here.  I'll  give  you  the 
address.  The  car  at  the  corner '11  take  you  there  pretty 
quick.  But  it  ain't  nowhere  near  so  nice  a  neighbourhood 
or  a  house  as  this."  She  regarded  her  plush  furniture  and 
Nottingham  curtains  with  pride.  " Thomasine 's  an  awful 
nice  girl." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hagar.  The  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  "  I  love 
Thomasine.  I  ought  n't  to  have  waited  so  long  before  com 
ing  to  find  her,  but  I  never  thought  of  all  this.  It  never 
entered  my  head." 

"She's  got  an  awful  good  place,  for  a  woman  —  nine  dol 
lars  a  week.  She  could  have  kept  a  room  here,  but  she's  awful 
fond  of  Jim  and  Marietta  and  the  children,  and  she  went  with 
them.  I  reckon  she'll  help  right  sharp  this  winter  —  'less'n 
the  stores  take  to  cutting  too." 

On  the  street-car,  the  new  address   in  her  hand,  Hagar 


HAGAR 

considered  Poverty.  It  was  there  in  person  to  illustrate,  in  an 
opposite  row  of  anaemic,  anxious  faces  and  forms  none  too 
warmly  clad;  it  was  there  on  the  street,  going  up  and  down; 
it  was  there  in  the  houses  that  were  so  gaunt,  defaced,  and 
ugly.  The  very  November  air,  cold  and  querulous,  seemed 
poor.  Her  mind  was  sorting  and  comparing  impressions.  She 
had  known,  when  she  came  to  think  of  it,  a  good  deal  of  pov 
erty,  and  a  number  of  poor  people.  In  the  first  place,  she  had 
been  brought  up  on  the  tradition  of  the  poverty  after  the  war 

—  but  that  had  been  heroic,  exalted  poverty,  in  which  all 
shared,  and  where  they  kept  the  amenities.  Then,  when  that 
had  passed,  there  were  the  steadygoing  poor  people  in  the 
country  —  those  who  had  always  been  poor  and  apparently 
always  would  be  so.   But  it  did  not  seem  to  hurt  so  in  the 
country,  and  certainly  it  was  not  so  ugly.  Often  it  was  not 
ugly  at  all.  Of  course,  everybody  at  home,  in  a  cheerful  tone 
of  voice,  called  the  Greens  poor  people.  The  Greens  were  poor, 

—  Caroline  and  Isham  were  poor;  —  she  remembered,  with  a 
curious  vividness,  the  poor  woman  on  the  canal  boat,  the 
summer  her  mother  died.   She  had  even  heard  the  Colonel 
say  that  he — the  Colonel  —  was  poor.  Of  course,  she  had 
seen  hosts  of  poor  people.  And  yet  until  to-day,  or  rather, 
to  be  more  precise,  until  the  morning  of  the  ferry  and  the 
Elevated,  she  had  never  generalized  Poverty,  never  conceived 
it  abstractly.   Poverty!  What  was  Poverty?  Why  was  Pov 
erty?  Was  it  a  constant;  was  it  going  to  last?  If  so,  why? 
If  it  was  n't  going  to  last,  what  was  going  to  make  things 
better?  It  was  desirable  that  things  should  be  better  —  oh, 
desirable,  desirable!  The  slave  of  Beauty  and  the  slave  of 
Righteousness  in  Hagar's  soul  rose  together  and  looked  upon 


LOOKING   FOR   THOMASINE  175 

the  dump-heap  and  the  shards  that  were  thrown  upon  it.  "  It 
should  n't  be.  There  is  no  need  and  no  sense  —  " 

Four  or  five  summers  past,  visiting  with  Miss  Serena  some 
Coltsworth  or  Ashendyne  house  in  the  country,  and  explor 
ing,  as  she  always  did  almost  at  once,  the  bookcases,  she 
had  come  upon  —  tucked  away  in  the  extreme  shadow  of  a 
shadowy  shelf  —  a  copy  of  William  Morris's  "News  From 
Nowhere."  Hagar  had  long  since  come  to  the  conviction 
that  her  taste  was  radically  different  from  that  of  most  Colts- 
worths  and  Ashendynes.  Where  they  tucked  away,  she  drew 
forth.  She  had  read  "News  From  Nowhere "  upon  that  visit. 
But  she  had  read  it  hurriedly,  amid  distractions,  and  she  was 
much  younger  then  than  now.  It  had  left  with  her  chiefly  an 
impression  of  a  certain  kind  of  haunting,  other-world  beauty. 
She  remembered  the  boy  and  the  girl  in  the  tobacco-shop, 
playing  merchant,  and  the  cherry  trees  in  the  streets,  and  the 
cottage  of  Ellen,  and  Ellen  herself,  and  the  Harvest  Home. 
Why  it  was  written  or  what  it  was  trying  to  show,  she  had  not 
felt  then  with  any  clearness.  Now,  somehow,  the  book  came 
back  to  her.  "That  was  what  'News  from  Nowhere'  was 
trying  to  show.  That  people  might  work,  work  well  and 
enough,  and  yet  there  be  for  all  beauty  and  comfort  and 
leisure  and  friendliness.  .  .  .  I'll  see  if  I  can  find  that  book 
and  I'll  read  it  again." 

The  car  stopped  at  the  street-corner  indicated.  When  she 
was  out  upon  the  pavement,  and  again  stood  a  moment  to 
look  about  her,  she  was  frightened.  This  was  the  region  of 
the  fire-escapes,  zig-zagging  down  the  faces  of  the  buildings, 
the  ramshackle  buildings.  It  was  the  region  of  the  black 
windows,  and  the  women  leaning  out,  and  the  wan  children. 


176  HAGAR 

This  street  was  narrower  than  the  other,  grimier  and  more 
untidy,  more  crowded,  colder,  and  the  voice  of  it  never  died. 
It  rose  to  a  clamour,  it  sank  to  a  murmur,  but  it  never  van 
ished.  Usually  it  kept  a  strident  midway,  idle  and  fretful  as 
the  interminable  blown  litter  of  the  street.  Hagar  drew  a 
pained  breath.  "Thomasine's  got  no  business  living  here  — 
nor  Jim  and  Marietta  and  the  children  either!" 

But  it  seemed,  when  she  mounted  a  dirty,  narrow  stair  and 
made  enquiries  of  a  person  she  met  atop,  —  it  seemed  that 
they  did  n't  live  there.  "They  moved  out  a  week  ago.  The 
man  was  in  some  damned  Works  or  other,  and  it  threw  him 
on  the  scrap-heap  with  about  a  thousand  more.  Then  the 
place  where  the  girl  worked  thought  scrap-heaps  were  so 
pretty  that  it  started  one,  too.  Then  he  heard  a  report  of 
work  to  be  had  over  in  New  Jersey  —  as  if,  if  this  is  the  fry 
ing-pan,  that  ain't  the  fire!  —  and  so  they  left  this  state.  No; 
they  did  n't  leave  any  address.  Working  people's  address 
this  year  is  'Tramping  It.  Care  of  the  Unemployed.'  Some 
times,  it's  just  plain  'Gone  Under."' 

The  man  looked  at  Hagar,  and  Hagar  looked  at  the  man. 
She  thought  that  he  had  the  angriest,  gloomiest  eyes  she 
had  ever  seen,  and  yet  they  were  not  wicked  eyes.  They 
blazed  out  of  the  dark  entryway  at  her,  but  for  all  their  coal- 
like  glowing  they  were  what  she  denominated  far-away- 
seeing  eyes.  They  seemed  to  look  through  her  at  something 
big  and  black  beyond.  "Have  you  seen  the  evening  paper?" 
he  asked  abruptly. 

"No,  I  have  not.  Why?" 

"I  wanted  to  see.  .  .  .  This  morning's  had  an  account  of 
three  Anarchist  bits-of-business.  A  bomb  in  Barcelona,  a 


LOOKING   FOR  THOMASINE  177 

bomb  in  Milan,  and  a  bomb  in  Paris.  —  No,  I  can't  tell'you 
anything  more  about  your  friends.  Yes,  I'm  sorry.  It's  a 
hard  world.  But  there's  a  better  time  coming." 

Grieving  and  bewildered,  she  came  out  upon  the  pavement. 
Why  had  n't  Thomasine  —  why  had  n't  Jim  let  them  know? 
If  there  was  n't  anything  at  home  for  Jim  to  do,  —  and  she 
agreed  that  there  was  n't  —  nor  for  Thomasine,  still  they 
could  all  have  stayed  there  and  waited  for  a  while  until  Jim's 
arm  and  hard  times  got  better.  She  tried  to  put  them  all  — 
there  were  six  —  in  the  overseer's  house  with  Mrs.  Green.  It 
would  be  crowded,  but .  .  .  The  overseer's  house  was  her 
grandfather's;  Mrs.  Green  had  had  it,  rent  free,  since  Wil 
liam  Green's  death,  and  most  of  her  cornmeal  and  flour  came 
from  the  Colonel's  hand.  Hagar  tried  to  say  to  herself  that 
her  grandfather  would  be  glad  to  see  Jim  and  Marietta  and 
Thomasine  and  the  three  children  there  staying  with  Mrs. 
Green  as  long  as  was  necessary;  that  if  it  were  crowded  in  the 
overseer's  house  her  grandmother  would  be  glad  to  have 
Thomasine  and  perhaps  one  of  the  children  stay  in  the  big 
house.  It  would  not  work.  It  came  to  her  too,  that  perhaps 
Jim  and  Marietta  and  Thomasine  might  not  be  so  fond  of 
coming  and  sitting  down  on  Mrs.  Green  and  saying,  "We've 
failed."  But  could  n't  they  work  in  the  country?  Jim  was  a 
mechanic;  he  didn't  know  anything  about  farming  —  and 
the  farmers  were  having  a  hard  time,  too.  Hagar's  head  be 
gan  to  ache.  Then  the  travelling  expenses  —  she  tried  to 
count  those  up.  If  they  could  n't  pay  the  rent,  how  could 
they  pay  for  six  to  go  down  to  Virginia  —  and  the  children's 
clothes,  and  the  food  and  everything? .  .  .  Was  there  no  one 
who  could  send  them  money?  Mrs.  Green  couldn't,  she 


178  HAGAR 

knew  —  and  Thomasine's  mother  and  father  were  very  poor, 
and  Corker  was  n't  doing  well,  and  Maggie  was  at  home 
nursing  their  mother  whose  spine  was  bad.  .  .  .  Gilead  Balm 
had  a  kindly  feeling  for  the  Greens,  she  knew  that.  William 
Green  had  been  a  good  overseer,  and  he  had  fought  in  the 
regiment  the  Colonel  led.  Her:*grandfather —  if  he  knew 
how  bad  it  was,  if  he  could  see  these  places  where  they  had 
been  living,  if  he  could  have  heard  the  woman  in  the  check 
apron  and  the  man  with  the  eyes  —  he  might  send  Jim 
twenty-five  dollars,  he  might  even  send  him  fifty  dollars, 
though  she  doubted  if  he  could  do  that  much.  She  herself 
had  twenty  dollars  left  of  that  August  two  hundred.  She  had 
been  saving  it  for  Christmas  presents  for  Gilead  Balm,  but 
now  she  was  going  to  send  it  to  Thomasine  —  just  as  soon  as 
she  knew  where  to  send  it.  She  walked  on  for  a  little  way  in 
a  hopeful  glow,  and  then  the  bottom  dropped  out  of  that,  too. 
It  would  n't  go  far  or  do  much.  It  was  too  small  a  cloth  to 
wrap -a  giant  in.  Jim  and  Thomasine's  unemployment  — 
Jim's  injured  arm,  hurt  in  the  Works,  Marietta  weak  and 
worn,  trying  to  care  for  a  little  baby.  .  .  .  Other  Mariettas, 
Jims,  Thomasines,  thousands  and  thousands  of  them.  .  .  . 
They  were  willing  and  wanting  to  work.  They  were  not  lazy. 
Jim  had  n't  injured  his  own  arm.  Apparently  there  had  to 
be  babies.  .  .  .  Unemployment,  and  no  one  to  help  when 
help  was  needed.  ...  It  needed  a  giant.  "All  of  us  together 
could  do  it  —  all  of  us  together." 

She  was  cold,  even  under  her  warm  jacket  and  with  her 
thick  gloves.  The  street  looked  horribly  cold,  but  she  did  not 
notice  many  jackets,  and  no  gloves.  With  all  her  beauty- 
loving  nature  she  hated  the  squalid;  nothing  so  depressed 


LOOKING   FOR  THOMASINE  179 

her.  She  had  not  seen  it  before  so  verily  itself;  in  the  coun 
try  it  was  apt  to  have  a  draping  and  setting  of  beauty;  even 
a  pigpen  might  be  environed  by  blossoming  fruit  trees.  Here 
squalor  environed  squalor,  ugliness  ugliness.  On  a  step  be 
fore  her  sat  a  forlorn  little  girl  of  eight  or  nine,  taking  care  of 
a  large  baby  wrapped  in  a  shawl.  Hagar  stopped  and  spoke. 

"Are  you  cold?"  The  child  shook  her  head.  "Are  you 
hungry?"  She  shook  it  still;  then  suddenly  broke  forth  vol 
ubly  in  a  strange  tongue.  She  was  telling  her  something,  but 
what  could  not  be  made  out.  The  door  behind  opened,  and 
Elizabeth  Eden  came  forth.  She  spoke  to  the  child  kindly,  in 
her  own  language,  with  a  caressing  touch  upon  the  shoulder. 
The  little  girl  nodded,  gathered  up  the  baby,  and  went  into 
the  house. 

"Miss  Eden—  " 

Elizabeth  turned.  "What—  Why,  Miss  Ashendyne!  Did 
you  drop  out  of  the  sky?  What  on  earth  are  you  doing  in 
Omega  Street?" 

"I  came  down  here  to  find  some  people  whom  I  know.  I 
am  visiting  in  New  York.  Oh,  I  am  glad  to  see  you!" 

"We  can't  stand  here.  The  Settlement  is  just  two  blocks 
away.  Can't  you  come  with  me  and  have  a  cup  of  tea  ?  Where 
are  you  staying?" 

Hagar  told  her,  adding,  "I  must  be  back  before  dark  or 
they  won't  let  me  come  out  again  by  myself." 

"  It  is  n't  quite  four.  I  '11  put  you  on  the  Elevated  in  plenty 
of  time.  — What  people  were  you  looking  for?" 

Hagar  told  her  as  they  walked.  Elizabeth  listened,  knew 
nothing  of  them,  but  said  gravely  that  it  was  a  common  lot 
nowadays.  "I  have  seen  many  hard  winters,  but  this  pro- 


180  HAGAR 

mises  to  be  one  of  the  worst."  She  advised  writing  guardedly 
to  Mrs.  Green,  until  she  found  out  how  Thomasine  and  Jim 
wrote  themselves.  "They  may  not  be  telling  her  how  bad  it 
is,  and  if  she  cannot  help,  it  is  right  that  they  should  n't.  I 
believe,  too,  in  being  hopeful.  If  they're  sturdy,  intelligent 
people,  they  '11  weather  the  gale  somehow,  barring  accidents. 
It's  the  miserable  accidents  —  the  strained  arm,  your  Mar 
ietta's  illness  after  the  baby  —  things  like  that  that  tip  the 
scales  against  them.  Well,  cheer  up,  child !  You  may  hear  that 
they  Ve  got  work  and  are  happy.  —  This  is  the  Settlement." 

Three  old  residences,  stranded  long  years  ago  when  "fash 
ionable  society"  moved  away,  first  street  by  street  and  at 
last  mile  by  mile,  formed  the  Settlement.  Made  one  building 
by  archways  cut  through,  grave  and  plain,  with  a  dignity 
of  good  woodwork  and  polished  brass  and  fit  furniture 
sparely  placed,  the  house  had  the  poise  and  force  of  a  galleon 
caught  and  held  intact  in  the  arms  of  some  sargasso  sea.  All 
around  it  were  wrecks  of  many  natures,  strangled,  pinned 
down,  and  disintegrating,  but  it  had  not  disintegrated.  One 
use  and  custom  had  left  it,  but  another  had  passed  in  with  a 
nobler  plan. 

Hagar  Ashendyne  went  through  the  place,  wondering,  saw 
the  workrooms,  the  classrooms,  the  assembly-room,  the  dwell 
ing-rooms,  austere,  with  a  quiet  goodness  and  fairness,  of  the 
people  who  dwelled  there  and  made  the  heart  of  the  place. 
"It  is  not  like  a  convent,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice;  "at  least, 
I  imagine  it  is  not —  and  yet — " 

"Oh,  the  two  ideas  have  a  point  of  contact!"  answered 
Elizabeth  cheerfully.  "Only,  here,  the  emphasis  is  laid  on 


action." 


LOOKING  FOR  THOMASINE  181 

She  met  several  people  whom  she  thought  she  would  like 
to  meet  again,  and  at  the  last  minute  came  in  Marie  Caton. 
It  was  Marie,  who,  at  five  o'clock,  put  her  on  the  Elevated  that 
would  take  her  home  in  twenty  minutes.  Marie  had  met  the 
Maines  —  "I'm  Southern,  too,  you  know,"  —  and  she  pro 
mised  to  come  to  see  Hagar,  and  she  said  that  Hagar  and 
Rachel  Bolt  must  come,  some  Sunday  afternoon,  to  the  Set 
tlement.  "That  is  chiefly  when  we  see  our  personal  friends." 

That  night  Hagar  wrote  to  her  grandmother  and  to  Mrs. 
Green.  In  four  days  time  she  heard  from  the  latter.  Yes, 
Jim  and  all  of  them  and  Thomasine  had  moved  to  New  Jer 
sey.  Times  were  hard,  Jim  said,  and  work  was  slack,  and 
they  thought  they  could  better  themselves.  Sure  enough  he 
had  got  a  right  good  job.  They  were  living  where  it  was  n't 
so  crowded  as  it  was  in  New  York,  almost  in  the  country, 
right  by  a  big  mill.  There  was  a  row  of  houses,  just  alike, 
Thomasine  said,  and  they  were  living  in  one  of  them.  There 
was  n't  any  yard,  but  you  could  walk  into  the  country  and 
see  the  woods,  and  Thomasine  said  the  sky  was  wonderful  at 
night,  all  red  from  a  furnace.  Thomasine  had  n't  got  work 
yet,  but  she  thought  that  she  would.  There  was  a  place  where 
they  made  silk  into  ribbons,  and  she  thought  there 'd  be  a 
place  for  her  there.  Marietta  was  better,  and  the  children 
were  fine.  Mrs.  Green  sent  the  address  —  and  Gilead  Balm 
certainly  missed  Hagar. 

Old  Miss  wrote  an  explanatory  letter.  Hagar  knew  or 
ought  to  know  that  they  had  little  or  nothing  but  the  place. 
The  Colonel  had  been  in  debt,  but  Medway  had  cleared  that 
off,  as  it  was  right  that  he  should,  now  that  he  was  able  to  do 
it;  right  and  kind.  But  as  for  ready  money  —  country  people 


1 82  HAGAR 

never  had  any  ready  money,  she  knew  that  perfectly  well. 
Medway  was  now,  Old  Miss  supposed,  a  rich  man,  but  no  one 
knew  exactly  how  rich,  and  at  any  rate  it  was  his  money, 
and  living  abroad  as  he  did  was,  of  course,  expensive.  He 
could  n't  justly  be  expected  to  do  much  more  than  he  was 
doing.  "As  for  your  having  money  to  give  the  Greens,  you 
have  n't  any,  child!  Medway  has  told  your  grandfather  that 
he  wants  you  from  now  on  to  have  every  proper  advantage, 
but  that  he  does  not  believe  in  the  way  young  people  to-day 
squander  money,  nor  does  he  want  you  to  depart  from  what 
you  have  been  taught  at  Gilead  Balm.  He  wants  you  to  re 
main  modest  in  your  wants,  as  every  woman  should  be.  The 
money  he  has  put  in  your  grandfather's  hands  for  you  this 
year  is  to  pay  for  this  winter  in  New  York  and  for  wherever 
you  go  next  summer.  He  never  meant  it  to  be  diverted  to 
helping  people  without  any  claim  upon  him  that  are  out  of 
employment.  Your  grandfather  won't  hear  to  any  such  thing 
as  you  propose.  He  says  your  idea  of  coming  home  and  us 
ing  the  money  you  are  costing  in  New  York  is  preposterous. 
The  money  is  n't  your  money;  it 's  your  father's  money,  to 
be  used  as  he,  and  not  as  you,  direct.  ...  Of  course,  it's  a 
hard  year,  and  of  course,  there  are  people  suffering.  There 
always  are.  But  Jim's  a  man  and  can  get  work,  and  Thom- 
asine  ought  n't  to  have  gone  away  from  home  anyhow.  They 
are  n't  starving,  child."  —  So  Old  Miss,  and  more  to  the 
same  effect,  and  then,  at  the  end,  a  postscript.  "I  had  a 
ten-dollar  gold-piece  that's  been  lying  by  me  a  long  time, 
and  I've  taken  it  to  Mary  Green  and  told  her  to  send  it  to 
Jim.  She  seemed  surprised,  and  from  what  she  says  and 
what  his  letter  says,  I  don't  think  they  are  any  worse  off 


LOOKING   FOR   THOMASINE  183 

than  most  people.    You're  young,  and  your  feelings  run 
away  with  you." 

Hagar  wrote  a  long,  loving  letter  to  Thomasine,  and  sent 
her  the  twenty  dollars.  Thomasine  returned  her  effusive, 
pretty  thanks,  showed  that  she  was  glad,  and  glad  enough  to 
have  the  help,  but  insisted  that  she  should  regard  it  as  a  loan. 
She  acknowledged  that  Jim  and  she,  and  therefore  Marietta 
and  the  babies,  had  been  pretty  hard  up.  But  things  were 
better,  she  hopefully  said.  She  had  a  place  and  Jim  had  a 
place.  His  arm  was  about  well,  and  on  the  whole,  they  liked 
New  Jersey,  "though  it  is  n't  as  interesting,  of  course,  as 
New  York." 


X 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   MAINES 

IT  was  the  year  of  the  assassination  of  Sadi  Carnot  in  France, 
of  the  trial  of  Emma  Goldman  in  New  York,  of  much  "Hel 
lish  Anarchist  Activity."  It  was  a  year  of  growth  in  the 
American  Federation  of  Labour.  It  was  a  year  of  Socialist 
growth.  It  was  a  year  of  strikes  —  mine  strikes,  railway 
strikes,  other  strikes,  Lehigh  and  Pullman  and  Cripple  Creek. 
It  was  the  year  of  the  Army  of  Coxey.  It  was  the  year  of  the 
Unemployed  and  of  Relief  Agencies.  It  was  the  year  when 
the  phrase  "A  living  wage"  received  currency. 

In  the  winter  of  1894  the  Spanish  War  had  not  been,  the 
Boer  War  had  not  been,  the  Russo-Japanese  War  had  not 
been.  The  war  between  Japan  and  China  was  on  the  eve  of 
being;  people  talked  of  Matabeleland,  and  Cecil  Rhodes  was 
chief  in  South  Africa.  Hawaii  was  in  process  of  being  annexed. 
In  the  winter  of  1894  it  was  the  Wilson  Tariff  Bill,  and  Bi 
metallism,  and  Mr.  Gladstone  and  Home  Rule,  and  the  Mafia 
in  Sicily,  and  the  A.P.A.,  and  the  Bicycle,  and  Queen  Lili- 
uokalani,  and  the  Causes  of  Strikes  and  of  Panics,  and  Elec 
tric  Traction,  and  the  romances  of  Sienkiewicz  and  "Tess  of 
the  D'Urbervilles"  and  "The  Prisoner  of  Zenda"  and  "The 
Heavenly  Twins."  Mr.  Howells  was  writing  "Letters  of  an 
Altrurian  Traveller";  George  Meredith  had  published  "Lord 
Ormont  and  his  Aminta."  Stevenson,  at  Vailima,  was  con 
sidering  "Weir  of  Hermiston." 


THE   MAINES  185 

In  1894  occurred  the  first  voting  of  women  in  New  Zea 
land.  It  saw  the  opening  of  a  Woman's  Congress  in  Berlin. 
In  New  York  a  Woman  Suffrage  Amendment  was  strongly 
advocated  before  a  Constitutional  Convention.  There  was 
more  talk  than  usual  of  the  Unrest  among  Women,  more 
editorials  than  usual  upon  the  phenomenon,  more  magazine 
articles.  But  the  bulk  of  the  talk  and  the  editorials  and  the 
magazine  articles  had  to  do  with  the  business  failures  and 
the  Unemployed  and  the  Strikes. 

The  beating  of  the  waves  of  the  year  was  not  loudly 
heard  in  the  Maines'  long,  high-ceilinged  parlour.  The  law 
droned  on,  bad  years  with  good.  Powhatan  had  speculated 
and  made  his  little  losses.  His  philosophy  this  winter  was 
pessimistic,  and  the  household  "economized."  But  the  table 
was  still  good  and  plentiful,  and  the  coloured  servants,  who 
were  fond  of  him  and  he  of  them,  smiled  and  bobbed,  and 
he  had  not  felt  it  necessary  to  change  his  brand  of  cigars,  and 
the  same  old  people  came  in  the  evening.  Mrs.  Maine  never 
read  the  newspapers.  She  rarely  read  anything,  though  once 
in  a  while  she  took  up  an  old  favourite  of  her  youth,  and 
placidly  dipped  now  into  it  and  now  into  her  box  of  choco 
lates.  Powhatan  kept  her  supplied  with  the  chocolates.  Twice 
a  week,  when  he  came  in  at  five  o'clock,  he  produced  out  of 
his  overcoat  pocket  a  glazed,  white,  two-pound  box:  — 
"Chocolates,  Bessie!  Catch!" 

Rachel  Bolt  was  more  alert  to  the  world  surge,  but  to  her, 
too,  it  must  come  a  little  muted  through  the  family  atmos 
phere.  Her  swiftest  vibrations  were  upon  other  lines,  curious 
inner,  personal  revolts  and  rebellions,  sometimes  consumed 
below  the  crust,  sometimes  breaking  forth  with  a  flare  and 


1 86  HAGAR 

rain  of  words  as  of  lava.  The  family  and  the  people  who 
habitually  came  to  the  house  were  used  to  Rachel's  way  of 
talking;  as  long  as  she  did  nothing  outre,  —  and  she  did  not, 
—  it  was  no  more  to  them  than  a  painted  volcano.  As  for 
Sylvie  —  Sylvie  was  as  sweet  and  likeable  as  sugar,  but  not 
interested  in  anything  outside  of  the  porcelain  world-dish 
that  held  her.  She  liked  her  clothes  this  winter,  and  the 
young  men  who  came  to  the  house,  and  she  dutifully  prac 
tised  her  voice,  and  enjoyed  the  shops  and  the  plays,  and 
wondered  a  good  deal  if  she  was  or  was  not  in  love  with  Jack 
Carter,  who  was  an  interne  in  one  of  the  hospitals,  and  who 
sent  her  every  week  six  of  the  new  roses  called  American 
Beauties.  She  had  other,  more  distant  relatives  in  New  York, 
people  of  wealth  who  presently  took  her  up.  She  was  with 
them  and  away  from  the  Maines  a  good  deal,  and,  on  the 
whole,  Hagar  saw  not  much  of  Sylvie  this  winter.  She  and 
Rachel  were  more  together. 

Almost  every  evening,  at  the  Maines',  people  came  in  — 
old  Southern  friends,  living  in  New  York,  or  here  on  business 
or  other  occasions,  young  men  and  women,  fond  of  Rachel, 
acceptable  fellow-sheep  from  the  fold  of  St.  Timothy,  now 
and  then  the  rector  himself,  now  and  then  some  young  man, 
Southern,  with  a  letter  of  introduction.  Sometimes  there 
were  but  one  or  two  besides  the  family,  sometimes  seven  or 
eight.  There  was  little  or  no  formal  entertainment,  but  this 
kind  of  thing  always.  Each  day  at  dusk  Hagar  put  on  one  of 
the  two  half-festive  gowns  which,  at  the  last  moment,  Miss 
Serena  had  insisted  she  must  have.  Both  were  simplicity 
itself,  both  of  some  soft,  crepy  stuff,  one  dark  bronze  and  one 
dark  green.  They  were  made  with  the  large  puffed  sleeves 


THE  MAINES  187 

of  the  period,  and  the  throat  slightly  low  and  square. 
"Country-made,  but  somehow  just  right,"  Rachel  judged. 
"You  are  n't  any  more  adorned  than  the  leaf  of  a  tree,  and 
yet  you  might  walk,  just  as  you  are,  into  Caesar's  palace." 

Usually  by  half-past  ten  visitors  were  gone,  lights  down 
stairs  were  out.  Powhatan  and  Bessie  believed  in  early  to  bed 
and  late  to  rise.  Upstairs,  in  her  bedroom  on  the  third  floor, 
Hagar  shook  out  and  hung  in  the  closet  the  bronze  or  green 
dress,  as  the  case  might  be,  put  on  her  gown  and  her  red 
wrapper,  braided  her  hair,  pushed  the  couch  well  beneath 
the  light,  curled  herself  up  on  it  under  the  eider-down  quilt, 
and,  tablet  against  knee,  began  to  write.  .  .  .  The  Short 
Story  —  it  was  that  she  dreamed  and  wrote  and  polished. 
Two  currents  of  thought  and  aspiration  ran  side  by  side. 
"To  earn  money  —  to  make  my  own  living  —  to  be  able  to 
help";  and  "To  make  this  Idea,  that  I  think  is  beautiful, 
come  forth  and  grow.  —  To  get  this  thing  right  —  to  make 
this  dream  show  clear — to  do  it,  to  do  it!  —  To  create!" 
The  latter  current  was  the  most  powerful.  The  former  would 
sooner  or  later  accomplish  its  end;  it  would  turn  the  mill- 
wheel  and  be  content.  But  the  latter  —  never,  never  would 
it  be  satisfied;  never  would  it  say,  "It  is  accomplished." 
Always  there  would  be  the  further  dream,  always  the  ne 
cessity  to  make  that,  too,  come  clear.  There  were  other 
currents,  more  or  less  strong,  Desire  of  Fame,  Desire  to 
be  Known,  Desire  to  Excel,  and  others;  but  the  first  two 
were  the  great  currents. 

Since  March  and  the  fairy  story  she  had  written  other 
stories,  four  or  five  in  all.  She  had  sent  them  to  magazines, 
and  all  but  one  had  come  back.  That  one  she  had  sent 


1 88  HAGAR 

immediately  after  her  search  for  Thomasine.  In  a  month  she 
had  word  that  it  was  taken,  and  that,  on  publication,  she 
would  be  paid  fifty  dollars.  The  letter  was  like  manna,  she 
went  about  all  day  with  a  rapt  face.  To  write  —  to  write  — 
to  write  stories  like  Hawthorne,  like  Poe  .  .  . 

She  had  been  six  weeks  in  New  York.  That  night,  when 
she  had  worked  for  an  hour  over  one  half-page,  and  then,  the 
light  out,  had  sat  for  a  long  while  in  the  window  looking  at 
the  winter  stars  above  the  city  roofs,  she  could  not  sleep 
when  she  went  to  bed,  but  lay,  straight  and  still,  half-think 
ing,  half-dreaming.  A  pageant  of  impressions,  waves  of  re 
peated,  altered,  rearranged  contacts  drove  through  her  mind. 
The  pictures  and  marbles  of  the  Metropolitan,  the  sculp 
tures  and  casts  of  sculptures  which  she  cared  for  more  thanfor 
the  paintings,  those  of  the  latter  which  she  loved  —  the  music 
that  she  had  heard,  the  plays  she  had  seen,  the  Park  and  the 
slow,  interminable  afternoon  parade  of  carriages  watched 
from  a  bench  beneath  the  trees,  Fifth  Avenue,  Broadway,  the 
hurrying  crowds,  the  rush  and  roar,  tramp  and  clangour,  the 
colour  and  bravura  —  Omega  Street,  the  Settlement,  a  Sun 
day  afternoon  there,  discussions  to  which  she  had  listened, 
a  mass  meeting  of  strikers  which,  Powhatan  having  taken 
her  downtown  to  show  her  the  Stock  Exchange  and  Trinity, 
they  had  inadvertently  fringed,  and  from  which,  with  epi 
thets  of  disapproval,  he  had  hurried  her  away;  —  uptown 
once  more  and  the  florists'  windows  and  the  wheels  on  the 
asphalt,  a  Sunday  morning  at  St.  Timothy's  with  the  stained 
glass  and  the  Bishop's  nephew  intoning;  —  again  the  thea 
tres,  a  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  opera,  the  "Merchant  of  Venice," 
a  play  of  Pinero's;  again  the  pictures  and  the  statues,  the  cast 


THE  MAINES  189 

of  the  great  Venus,  the  cast  of  Niobe,  of  the  Diana  with  the 
hound,  of  Apollo  and  Hermes;  the  pictures,  Rembrandts 
and  Vandykes,  and  certain  landscapes,  and  a  form  that  she 
liked,  firelit  and  vague,  blind  Nydia  moving  through  ruining 
Pompeii,  and  Bastien  LePage's  Joan  of  Arc;  then  the  Park 
again,  and  the  great  trees  above  the  mall,  and  people,  people, 
people!  —  all  made  a  vibrating  whirl,  vast,  many-hued,  and 
with  strange  harmonies.  She  lay  until  it  passed  and  sank  like 
the  multi-coloured  sand  of  the  desert. 

When  at  last  she  slept,  she  had  a  curious  dream.  She  and 
her  mother  were, alone  on  an  island  with  palm  trees.  She  was 
used  to  being  with  her  mother  in  dreams.  She  had  for  the 
memory  of  her  mother  so  passionate  a  loyalty;  the  figure  of 
Maria,  young,  it  always  seemed  to  her,  as  herself,  so  kept 
abreast  with  her  inner  life  that  it  was  but  a  naturalness  that 
she  should  be  there  in  the  dream  mind,  too.  She  was  there 
now,  on  the  island  with  the  palm  trees,  and  the  two  sat  and 
looked  at  the  sea,  which  was  very  blue.  Then,  right  out  of 
the  lonely  sea,  there  grew  a  crowded  wharf,  with  a  white 
steamship  and  people  going  to  it  and  coming  from  it.  Her 
father  came  from  it,  dressed  in  white  with  a  white  hat  like  a 
helmet,  and  then  suddenly  there  was  no  wharf  nor  ship,  but 
they  were  in  a  curious  street  of  low,  pale-coloured  houses  — 
her  father  and  her  mother  and  herself  and  the  palm  trees. 
"Now  we  are  all  going  to  be  happy  together,"  she  said;  but 
"No,"  said  her  mother,  "wait  until  the  procession  passes." 
Then  there  was  a  procession,  and  they  were  all  women,  and 
at  first  they  all  had  the  face  and  eyes  of  Bastien  LePage's 
Joan  of  Arc,  but  then  that  faded,  and  they  were  simply  many 
women,  but  each  of  them  carried  a  blossoming  bough.  She 


190  HAGAR 

saw  faces  that  she  knew  among  them,  and  she  saw  women 
that  she  thought  belonged  to  the  Middle  Ages,  and  Greek 
women,  and  Egyptians,  and  savages.  They  went  by  for  a 
long  time,  and  then,  with  a  turn  of  the  hand,  the  dream 
changed,  and  they  were  all  in  a  courtyard  with  a  well  and 
more  palm  trees,  and  people  coming  and  going,  and  they  were 
eating  and  drinking,  and  there  was  a  third  woman  with  them 
whom  her  father  called  Anna.  She  had  a  string  of  jewels,  and 
she  tried  them,  first  on  Hagar  and  then  on  Maria;  but 
Maria  had  a  knife  and  suddenly  she  struck  at  her  father 
with  it.  She  cut  him  across  both  wrists  and  the  blood 
flowed.  —  Hagar  wakened  and  sat  up  in  bed,  shivering.  Her 
father's  face  was  still  plain  against  her  eyeballs  —  bearded 
and  handsome,  with  red  in  his  cheeks  and  the  hat  like  a 
helmet. 

During  Christmas  week  Ralph  Coltsworth  appeared.  He 
had  to  spend  his  holidays  somewhere,  he  said.  Hawk  Nest 
was  dull  and  he  did  n't  like  Gilead  Balm  without  Hagar. 

"Ralph,  why  don't  you  study?" 

"I  do  study.  I'm  a  star  student.  Only  I  don't  like  the 
law.  I'm  going  to  do  a  little  more  convincing  myself  and  the 
family,  and  then  I'm  going  to  chuck  it!  I've  got  a  little 
money  to  start  things  with.  I  want  to  go  in  with  a  broker  I 
know." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do  that  for?" 

"  Oh,  because !  .  .  .  There  are  chances,  if  you  Ve  got  the  feel 
ing  in  your  finger  tips ! .  .  .  Don't  you  know,  Gipsy,  that  some 
thing  like  that  is  the  career  for  a  man  like  me?  If  I  had  been 
my  father,  I  could  have  waved  my  sword  and  gone  charging 
down  history  —  and  if  I  'd  been  my  grandfather,  I  could 


THE  MAINES  191 

have  poured  out  Whig  eloquence  from  every  stump  in  the 
country  and  looked  Olympian  and  been  carried  in  procession 
(I  don't  like  politics  now;  it's  an  entirely  different  thing);  — 
and  if  I'd  been  my  great-grandfather,  I  could  have  filibus 
tered  or  settled  the  Southwest;  and  back  of  that  I  could  have 
done  almost  any  old  thing  —  come  over  with  the  Adven 
turers,  seized  a  continent,  shared  England  with  the  Normans, 
marauded  with  the  Vikings,  whiled  through  Europe  with 
Attila,  done  almost  anything  and  come  out  with  a  name  and 
my  arms  full!  Now  you  can't  conquer  things  like  that,  but, 
by  George,  you  can  corner  things!" 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  —  That  you  want  to  become  a  rich 
man?" 

"That's  what  most  of  those  others  wanted.  Yes,  riches 
and  power." 

"I  was  reading  the  other  day  a  magazine  article.  It  said 
that  the  day  when  any  American,  if  he  had  energy  and  ambi 
tion,  might  hope  to  make  a  great  fortune  was  past.  It  said 
that  the  Capets  and  Plantagenets  and  Hapsburgs  were  all 
here;  that  the  dynasties  were  established  and  the  entente 
cordiale  in  operation;  that  young  and  adventurous  Amer- 
cans  might  hope  to  become  captains  of  mercenaries,  or 
they  might  go  in  for  being  court  chaplains,  and  trouba 
dours." 

"Oh,  that  article  had  dyspepsia!"  said  Ralph.  "It  is  n't 
as  easy  as  it  was,  that's  certain!  but  it's  possible  yet,  in  1894 
—  if  you've  got  an  opening." 

"Have  you  got  one?" 

"Elder  and  Marten  would  take  me  in.  Marten  was  an  old 
flame  of  my  mother's,  and  I  got  his  son  Dick  out  of  a  scrape 


192  HAGAR 

last  year. —  In  ten  years,  you'll  see,  Gipsy!  I'll  send  you 
orchids  and  pearls!" 

"I  don't  want  them,  thank  you,  Ralph." 

Ralph  took  the  flower  from  his  buttonhole  and  began  to 
pluck  away  its  petals.  "Gipsy,  I  was  awfully  glad,  last 
summer,  when  you  sent  that  Eglantine  fellow  about  his 
business." 

"Mr.  Laydon  and  I  sent  each  other." 

"Well,  the  road's  clear — that's  all  I  want  to  know! 
Gipsy—" 

"Ralph,  it's  no  use.   I'm  not  going  to  listen." 

"The  family  has  planned  this  ever  since  we  were  infants. 
When  you  used  to  come  to  Hawk  Nest  with  your  big  eyes 
and  your  blue  gingham  dress  and  your  white  stockings  — 
I  knew  it  somehow  even  then,  even  when  I  teased  you 
so—" 

"You  certainly  teased  me.  Do  you  remember  the  rain 
barrel?" 

"No,  I  don't.  The  family  has  set  its  heart — " 

"Oh,  Ralph,  family  can  be  such  a  tyrant!  At  any  rate, 
ours  will  have  to  take  its  heart  off  this." 

Ralph  turned  sullen.  "Well,  the  family  used  to  settle  it 
for  women." 

"Yes,  it  did  —  when  you  came  over  with  William  the  Con 
queror!  Do  you  want  to  take  me,  regardless  —  just  as  you'd 
take  those  millions  ?  Well,  you  may  take  those  millions,  but 
you  can't  take  me!" 

"Your  father  wants  it,  too.  The  Colonel  showed  me  a 
letter—" 

Hagar  stopped  short  —  they  were  walking  in  the  Park, 


THE   MAINES  193 

"My  father!  .  .  .  Do  you  think  I  owe  my  father  so  great  a 
love  and  obedience?"  She  looked  before  her,  steadily,  down 
the  vista  of  vast,  leafless  trees.  "The  strongest  feeling," 
she  said,  "that  I  have  about  my  father  is  one  of  strong 
curiosity.'* 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   SOCIALIST  MEETING 

THE  house  was  full,  said  the  man  at  the  ticket-window.  No 
thing  to  be  had,  short  of  almost  the  back  row,  under  the  gal 
lery.  Rachel  shook  her  head,  and  her  cousin,  Willy  Maine, 
leaving  the  window,  expressed  his  indignation.  "  You  ought  to 
have  told  me  this  afternoon  that  you  wanted  to  go !  Anybody 
might  have  known"  —  Willy  was  from  one  of  the  sleepier 
villages  in  one  of  the  sleepiest  counties  of  his  native  state  — 
"Anybody  might  have  known  that  in  New  York  you  have  to 
get  your  tickets  early!  Now  we've  missed  the  show!"  By 
now  they  were  out  of  the  swinging  doors  and  down  upon 
the  pavement.  The  night  was  bright  and  not  especially  cold. 
It  was  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  and  they  stood  at  the  intersec 
tion  of  Fourth  Avenue  and  Twenty-third  Street. 

"It's  too  late  to  try  anything  else,"  pondered  Rachel. 
"Willy,  I'm  sorry.  But  we  truly  did  n't  know  we  could  go 
until  the  last  minute,  and  I  did  n't  believe  it  would  be 
crowded." 

"It's  a  beautiful  night,"  said  Hagar.  "It's  light  and 
bright,  and  there  are  crowds  of  people.  Why  can't  we  just 
walk  about  until  bedtime?" 

Willy,  who  was  nineteen  but  a  young  giant,  pursed  his 
lips.  "Is  it  proper  for  ladies?" 

"Oh,  I  think  so,"  said  Rachel  absently,  "but  would  it  really 
amuse  you,  Hagar?" 


THE   SOCIALIST   MEETING  193 

"Yes,  it  would.  Let  us  go  slowly,  Rachel,  and  look  in  win 
dows  and  pretend  to  be  purchasing." 

Willy  laughed,  genially  and  patronizingly.  "I've  been 
along  here.  There  are  n't  any  Paris  fashions  in  these  win 
dows." 

"I  want,"  said  Hagar  succinctly,  "to  saunter  through  the 
streets  of  a  great  city." 

They  began  to  walk,  their  faces  turned  downtown,  staying 
chiefly  upon  the  avenue,  but  now  and  then  diverging  into 
side  streets  where  there  were  lights  and  people.  By  degrees 
they  came  into  congested,  poorer  quarters.  To  Willy,  not 
long  removed  from  a  loneliness  of  tidal  creeks,  vast  stretches 
of  tobacco,  slow,  solitary  sandy  roads,  all  and  any  of  New 
York  was  exciting,  all  a  show,  a  stimulus  swallowed  without 
discrimination.  That  day  Rachel  had  found  occasion  to  rage 
against  a  certain  closed  circle  of  conventions.  The  subject 
had  come  up  at  the  breakfast  table,  introduced  by  a  head 
line  in  the  morning  paper,  and  she  had  so  shocked  her  family 
that  for  once  they  had  acted  as  though  the  volcano  was  real. 
Mrs.  Maine  had  grown  moist  and  pink,  and  had  said  preci 
pitately  that  in  her  time  a  young  woman  —  whether  she  were 
married  or  single,  that  did  n't  matter! —  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  putting  her  hand  in  the  fire  as  of  mentioning  such 
things !  And  Powhatan  had  as  nearly  thundered  as  was  in  his 
nature  to  do.  Rachel  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  desisted, 
but  she  had  gone  about  all  day  with  defiance  written  in  her 
small,  sombre  face.  Now  to-night,  the  street,  the  broad 
stripes  of  blackness,  the  thin  stripes  of  gold  light,  the  sound  of 
voices  and  of  many  footfalls,  the  faces  when  the  light  fell 
upon  them  and  the  brushing  by  of  half-seen  forms  suited  her 


196  HAGAR 

raised,  angry,  and  mutinous  mood.  As  for  Hagar,  the  street 
and  its  movement  simply  became  herself.  She  never  lost 
the  child's  and  the  poet's  power  of  coalescence. 

It  was  before  the  days  of  Waring.  The  only  White  Wings 
upon  this  avenue  had  been  the  snowflakes  which  a  week  ago 
had  fallen  thickly,  which  had  been  dully  scraped  over  the 
curbing  into  the  gutter,  and  which  now  stayed  there  in  irregu 
lar,  one  to  three  feet  in  altitude,  begrimed  Alpine  ranges. 
The  cobblestones  of  the  street  between,  over  which  the 
great  dray  horses  ceaselessly  passed,  were  foul  enough,  while 
the  sidewalks  had  their  own  litter  of  torn  scraps  of  paper, 
cheap  cigar  ends,  infinitesimal  bits  of  refuse.  The  day  of  the 
weirdness  of  electric  lighting,  of  the  bizarre  come-and-go  of 
motion  signs  was  not  yet  either.  Down  here  there  were  occa 
sional  arc  lights,  but  gas  yet  reigned  in  chief.  The  shops,  that 
were  not  shops  for  millionaires,  nor  even  for  the  Quite  Com 
fortable,  all  had  their  winking  gaslights.  Below  them  like 
chequered  walls  sprang  out  the  variegated  show-windows. 
The  wares  displayed  were  usually  small  in  size,  slight  of  value, 
and  high  in  colour,  a  kaleidoscopic  barbaric  display.  Above 
dark  doorways  the  frequent  three  golden  balls  showed  up 
well. 

Because  the  night  was  so  mild  and  windless  many  people 
were  abroad  —  people  not  well-dressed,  and  yet  not  quite 
poverty-stricken  in  aspect;  others  who  were  so,  lounging 
men  with  hopeless  faces,  women  wandering  by,  pinched  and 
lost-looking;  then  again  groups  or  individuals  of  a  fairly  pros 
perous  appearance.  The  flaring  gas  showed  now  and  again 
faces  that  were  evidently  alien,  or  there  came  a  snatch  of 
strange  jargon.  A  crowd  had  gathered  at  a  street  corner.  A  girl 


THE   SOCIALIST   MEETING  197 

wearing  a  dark-blue  poke  bonnet  with  a  red  ribbon  across 
it  was  going  from  one  to  the  other  holding  out  a  tambourine. 
A  few  pennies  clinked  into  it.  A  man  standing  in  the  centre 
of  the  crowd,  raised  his  arm.  "Now,  we  are  going  to  sing." 
The  women  in  the  bonnets  beat  upon  the  tambourines,  a 
man  with  a  drum  and  another  with  a  cornet  gave  the  open 
ing  bars,  the  women  raised  shrill,  sweet  voices,  — 

"There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  blood, 

Drawn  from  Immanuel's  veins, 
And  sinners,  plunged  beneath  that  flood, 
Lose  all  their  guilty  stains — " 

The  hymn  ended,  a  woman  lifted  both  hands  and  prayed 
with  fervour  and  a  strange,  natural  eloquence.  Then  the 
squad  gathered  up  horn  and  drum  and  tambourines,  and, 
drawing  a  part  of  the  crowd  with  it,  moved  up  the  street  to 
another  skirmish  ground. 

Rachel  and  Willy  and  Hagar  drifted  on.  The  night  was 
still  young,  the  stars  glittering  above,  the  gaslamps  making  a 
vista,  the  footfalls  on  the  pavement  murmurous  as  a  stream. 
The  clanging  of  the  street-car  bell,  the  rush  of  a  train  on  the 
neighbouring  Elevated,  the  abrupt  rise  and  fall  of  passing 
voices —  all  exercised  a  fascination.  The  night  was  coloured, 
rhythmic.  They  came  to  a  building,  narrow  and  plain,  with 
lit  windows,  as  of  a  hall,  on  the  second  floor,  and  with  a  clean, 
fairly  lighted  stair  going  up  from  an  open  street  door.  Men 
and  women  were  entering.  A  care-worn,  stooping,  workman- 
looking  man  stood  by  the  door  with  handbills  or  leaflets 
which  he  was  giving  out.  "Socialist  Meeting,"  he  said. 
"Good  speaking.  The  Unemployed  and  the  Strikes.  Social 
ist  Meeting.  Everybody  welcome. 


198  HAGAR 

Hagar  stopped.    "  Rachel,  I  want  to  go  in  here.    Yes,  I  do ! 
Come  now,  be  good  to  me,  Rachel!  Mr.  Maine  wants  to  go, 


too." 


"Socialists!"  said  Willy.  "Those  are  the  people  who  are 
blowing  up  everybody  with  bombs.  I  did  n't  suppose  New 
York  would  let  them  hold  a  meeting!  They  're  devils!" 

But  Willy  had  so  well-grown  a  human  curiosity  that  he  was 
not  averse  to  a  glimpse  of  devils.  Perhaps  he  heard  himself, 
back  home  in  the  sleepy  county,  talking  at  the  village  post- 
office  or  in  the  churchyard  before  church.  "Yes,  and  where 
else  do  you  think  I  went?  I  went  to  a  Socialist  Meeting! 
Bomb-throwers  —  Socialists  and  Anarchists,  you  know!" 
Rachel,  hardly  more  informed,  was  ready  to-night  for  any 
thing  a  little  desperate.  She  would  not  have  taken  Hagar 
where  she  positively  thought  she  ought  not  to  go,  —  but  if 
these  were  desperate  people  going  in,  they  were,  to  say  the 
least,  pretty  quiet  and  orderly  and  decent-looking;  —  and  it 
could  do  no  harm  just  to  slip  in  and  sit  on  a  back  seat  for  a 
few  minutes  and  look  on  —  just  as  you  might  go  to  mass 
in  a  cathedral  abroad,  disapproving  all  the  time,  of  course. 
But  Hagar  had  a  book  or  two  in  her  mind,  and  in  addition 
the  talk  that  Sunday  afternoon  at  the  Settlement. 

When  they  had  climbed  the  stairs  and  come  into  the  hall, 
which  was  a  small  one,  they  found  that  the  back  seats  were 
all  taken.  Apparently  all  seats  were  taken,  but  as  they  stood 
hesitating,  a  young  man  beckoned,  and  before  they  knew  it 
they  found  themselves  well  down  the  place,  seated  near  the 
platform.  Rachel  looked  around  a  little  uneasily.  "Crowded, 
and  they  all  look  so  intent!  It's  not  going  to  be  easy  to  get 
up  and  leave." 


THE   SOCIALIST  MEETING  199 

The  hall  was  rude  enough,  and  small,  the  light  not  bril 
liant,  the  platform  a  few  bare  boards.  Upon  it  stood  a  deal 
table,  and  three  or  four  chairs.  Back  of  these,  fastened 
against  the  wall,  was  a  red  flag,  and  on  either  side  of  this  a 
strip  of  canvas  with  large  letters.  On  one  side,  UNIVERSAL 
BROTHERHOOD,  and  on  the  other,  WORKINGMEN, 
UNITE!  Now  standing  beside  the  table,  and  slowly  walking 
from  end  to  end  of  the  platform,  a  dark-eyed,  well-knit  man 
was  speaking,  quite  conversationally,  with  a  direct  appeal, 
now  to  this  quarter  of  the  hall,  now  to  that.  His  voice  was 
deep  and  mellow;  he  spoke  without  denunciations,  with  a 
quiet  reasonableness  and  conviction.  At  the  moment  he 
was  stating  a  theory,  giving  the  data  upon  which  it  was 
based,  weighing  it,  comparing  it  with  its  counter  theory. 
He  used  phrases  —  "Economic  Determinism"  —  "Un 
earned  Increment"  —  "Class-Consciousness"  —  "Problem 
of  Distribution"  —  explained  clearly  what  he  meant  by 
them,  then  put  them  aside.  "They  are  phrases  that  will 
serve  their  ends  and  pass  from  speech,"  he  said.  "We  shall 
bring  in  modifiers,  we  shall makeother phrases,  andthey, too,  in 
their  turn,  will  pass  from  the  tongues  of  men;  but  the  idea 
behind  them  —  the  idea —  the  idea  and  its  expression,  the 
intellectual  and  moral  sanction,' the  thing  that  is  metaphys 
ical  and  immortal,  that  will  not  pass !  The  very  word  Social 
ism  may  pass,  but  Socialism  itself  will  be  in  the  blood  and 
bone  and  marrow  of  the  world  that  is  to  be!  And  this  is 
what  is  that  Socialism."  He  began  to  speak  in  aphorisms, 
in  words  from  old  Wisdom-Religions,  and  then,  for  all  they 
were  stories  of  quite  modern  happenings,  in  parables  —  the 
woe  of  the  world  epitomized,  a  generalization  of  its  needs, 


200  HAGAR 

all  lines  of  help  synthesized  into  a  world  saviour,  which,  lo! 
was  the  world  itself.  He  made  an  end,  stood  a  moment  with 
kindling  eyes,  then  sat  down.  After  an  appreciable  silence 
there  came  a  strange,  deep  applause,  men  and  women 
striking  fist  on  palm,  striking  the  bare  floor  with  ill-shod 
feet. 

A  small,  wiry  dark  man,  sitting  on  the  platform,  rose  and 
spoke  rapidly  for  twenty  minutes.  He  had  a  caustic  wit  and 
the  power  of  invective  which,  if  possessed  by  the  other,  had 
not  been  displayed.  Once  or  twice  he  evoked  a  roar  of 
angry  laughter.  When  he  had  finished,  and  the  applause  had 
subsided,  the  chairman  of  the  evening  stood  up  and  spoke. 
"As  the  comrades  know,  it  is  our  habit  to  turn  the  last  half- 
hour  into  an  open  meeting.  Nearly  always  there 's  somebody 
who's  been  thinking  and  studying  and  wants  to  say  a  word 
as  to  what  he 's  found  —  or  there 's  somebody  who 's  got  a  bit 
of  personal  experience  that  he  thinks  might  help  a  comrade 
who's  struggling,  maybe,  through  a  like  pit.  Anybody  .that 
feels  like  speaking  out,  let  him  do  it  —  or  let  her  do  it.  Men 
and  women,  we're  all  comrades  —  and  though  Socialists  are 
said  not  to  be  religious,  we're  all  religious  enough  to  like  a 
good  experience  meeting — " 

He  paused,  waiting  for  some  one  to  rise.  The  first  speaker 
came  for  a  moment  to  his  side.  "Mr.  Chairman,  may  I  say 
one  word  to  our  comrades,  and  to  any  others  who  may  be 
here?  It  is  this.  If  'religious'  means  world-service  and  a 
recognition  and  a  striving  toward  the  ultimate  divine  in  my 
neighbour  as  in  myself,  and  in  myself  as  in  my  neighbour  — 
then  I  think  Socialism  may  be  called  religious." 

As  he  moved  back  to  his  chair  a  man  arose  in  the  back  of 


THE  SOCIALIST  MEETING  201 

the  house  and  began  to  speak.  After  a  moment  the  chairman 
halted  him  with  a  gesture.  "It  is  difficult  for  the  comrades 
on  this  side  the  hall  to  hear  you.  Won't  you  come  to  the  plat 
form?"  The  man  hesitated,  then  nodded  his  head;  and  with 
a  certain  deliberateness  moved  down  the  aisle,rand  stepping 
upon  the  only  slightly  raised  platform  stood  facing  the  gath 
ering.  A  colour  flared  in  his  cheek,  and  his  hands,  held  some 
what  stiffly  at  his  sides,  opened  and  shut.  It  was  evident 
that  he  was  not  an  accustomed  speaker,  and  that  there  was 
diffidence  or  doubt  of  himself  and  his  welcome  to  be  over 
come.  He  began  stammering,  with  nervous  hesitation.  If 
anything  he  could  say  would  help  by  one  filing  he  would  say 
it,  though  he  was  n't  used  —  yet —  to  speaking.  He  owed  a 
debt  and  he  believed  in  paying  debts  —  though  not  the  way 
the  world  made  you  pay  them. 

It  was  hard  to  tell  how  young  or  old  he  was.  At  times  he 
looked  boyish;  then,  when  a  certain  haggard,  brooding  aspect 
came  upon  him,  he  seemed  a  middle-aged  man.  His  clothes 
were  poor,  but  whole  and  clean,  his  shirt  a  grey  flannel  one. 
Above  the  loose  collar  showed  a  short,  dark  beard,  well-cut 
features,  and  deep-set  dark  eyes. 

Lines  came  into  Hagar's  forehead  between  her  eyes.  She 
had  seen  this  man  somewhere.  Where?  She  had  a  trick  of 
holding  her  mind  passive,  when  the  wanted  memory  would 
slowly  rise,  like  water  from  a  deep,  deep  well.  Now,  after  a 
minute  or  two,  it  came.  She  had  seen  him  in  the  street-car 
that  night,  going  from  Eglantine  to  see  "Romeo  and  Juliet." 
He  had  been  in  workman's  clothes,  he  had  touched  her  skirt, 
standing  before  her  in  the  car;  then^he  had  found  a  seat,  and 
she  had  watched  him  unfold  and  read  a  newspaper.  Some 


202  HAGAR 

vague,  uncertain  thought  that  she  could  not  trace  had  made 
her  regard  him  at  intervals  until  with  Miss  Bedford  and  Lily 
and  Laydon  she  had  left  the  car.  .  .  . 

The  man  on  the  platform  had  shaken  off  the  initial  clumsi 
ness  of  speech  and  bearing .  Like  a  swimmer,  he  had  needled 
the  wave.  He  was  not  clumsy  now;  he  was  speaking  with 
short,  stripped  words,  nakedly,  with  earnestness  at  white 
heat.  Once  he  had  been  dumb  and  angry,  he  said,  as  a  mad 
dened  dog.  He  had  been  through  years  that  had  made  him 
so.  He  had  been  growing  like  a  wolf.  There  were  times  when 
he  wanted  to  take  hold  of  the  world's  throat  and  tear  it  out. 
"Do  you  remember  Ishmael  in  the  Bible?  —  his  hand  against 
every  man  and  every  man's  hand  against  him?  Well,  I  was 
growing  to  feel  that  way."  Then  at  that  point —  "and  that 
was  perhaps  three  years  ago,  and  I  was  down  South  in  a  town 
in  my  state,  trying  to  get  work.  I  knew  how  to  break  rock, 
and  I  knew  how  to  make  parts  of  shoes,  and  I  did  n't  know 
much  besides,  except  that  it  was  a  hard  world  and  I  hated  it" 
—  at  this  point  chance  "or  something"  had  sent  him  an 
acquaintance,  an  educated  man,  a  bookkeeper  in  the  concern 
where  he  finally  got  a  job.  Out  of  the  acquaintanceship  had 
grown  a  friendship.  "After  a  while  I  got  to  going  to  his 
house.  He  had  a  wife  who  helped  him  lots."  The  three  used 
to  talk  together,  and  the  man  lent  him  books  and  made  him 
read  them,  and  "  little  by  little,  he  led  me  on.  He  was  like  an 
old  man  I  knew  in  the  mountains  when  I  was  a  boy.  He 
showed  me  that  we  7re  all  sick  and  sorry,  but  that  we  're 
growing  a  principle  of  health.  He  showed  me  how  slow  we 
creep  up  from  worm  to  man,  and  how  now  we're  fluttering 
toward  something  farther  on,  and  how  hands  of  the  past 


THE   SOCIALIST   MEETING  203 

come  upon  us,  and  how  we  yet  escape  —  and  the  wings 
strengthen.  He  showed  me  how  vindictiveness  is  no  use,  and 
how  much  that  is  wrong  with  the  world  is  owing  to  poor  so 
cial  mechanism  and  can  be  changed.  He  showed  me  what 
Brotherliness  means,  on  the  road  to  Unity.  He  put  it  in  my 
mind  and  heart  to  want  to  help.  He  told  me  I  had  a  good 
mind.  I  had  always  rather  liked  books,  but  I'd  been  where 
I  could  n't  get  any,  even  if  they'd  given  you  time  for  reading. 
He  made  me  study  things  out,  and  one  day  I  began  to  think 
—  think  for  myself  —  think  it  out.  I  've  never  stopped. 
Usually  now,  I'm  at  night-school  nights.  I'm  learning,  and 
I  'm  going  to  keep  on,  until  I  make  thinking  Wisdom."  He 
studied  the  ceiling  a  moment,  then  spoke  out  with  a  ring  in 
his  voice.  "  I  was  a  mountain  boy.  When  I  was  n't  out  of  my 
teens  I  got  drunk  at  a  dance  and  played  hell-fool  and  almost 
killed  a  man  or  two.  Then  the  sheriff  chased  me  up  to  Cata 
mount  Gap,  and  the  stuff  was  still  in  me  and  my  head  hitting 
the  stars,  and  I  shot  and  shot  at  the  sheriff.  . . .  Well,  the 
end  of  all  that  playing  was  that  I  went  to  the  penitentiary 
for  four  years.  One  thing  I  want  wisdom  for  is  to  know  how 
to  talk  to  people  about  what  is  called  crime  and  about  that 
great  crime,  our  law  courts  and  penal  system.  Well,  I  came 
out  of  the  penitentiary,  and  then  it  was  very  hard  to  get  work. 
It  was  bitter  hard.  That's  another  thing  I  want  learning  and 
wisdom  for  —  to  talk  about  that.  You  see,  the  penitentiary 
was  n't  content  with  the  four  years;  it  followed  me  always. 
And  then  it's  hard  to  get  work  anyhow.  There  was  n't  any 
use  in  going  back  to  the  mountains.  But  after  a  while  I  got 
work  and  kept  it.  Then,  three  months  ago,  I  came  up  here, 
and  I  got  work  here.  I  'm  working  on  your  streets  now,  and 


204  HAGAR 

studying  between  times.  .  .  .  I'm  standing  up  here  tonight 
to  tell  you  that  you  Ve  got  a  flag  that  draws  the  unhappy  to 
you,  when  it  happens  that  they're  seeking  with  the  mind.  I 
don't  know  much  about  class-consciousness.  We  did  n't  have 
it  in  the  mountains,  though,  of  course,  we  had  it  in  the  peni 
tentiary.  But  I  know  that  we've  got  to  take  the  best  that 
was  in  the  past  and  leave  the  worst,  and  go  on  with  the  best 
toward  new  things.  We've  got  to  help  others  and  help  our 
selves.  And  it  does  n't  do  just  to  want  to  help;  you've  got 
to  have  a  working  theory;  you  Ve  got  to  use  your  mind.  You 
Ve  got  to  consider  your  line  of  march  and  mark  it  out  and 
blast  away  the  rock  upon  it  and  go  on.  And  I  am  willing  to 
be  of  your  construction  gang.  The  man  I  was  talking  about 
thought  pretty  much  that  way,  too.  He  said  there  were  a  lot 
of  isolated  people,  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  not  only 
those  that  call  themselves  working-people,  but  others,  too, 
and  women  just  as  well  as  men,  who  were  thinking  that  way 
—  that  they  might  not  call  themselves  Socialists,  but  that 
they  were  blood  kin  just  the  same.  I  don't  know  why,  to 
night,  but  I  am  thinking  of  something  that  happened  when 
I  had  been  a  year  in  the  penitentiary,  and  they  had  rented  a 
lot  of  us  up  the  river  to  make  the  bed  for  a  railroad.  While  I 
was  up  there,  I  could  n't  stand  it  any  longer,  and  I  ran  away. 
They  set  the  dogs  on  my  track  and  took  me,  of  course,  but 
before  they  did,  I  was  lying  in  a  thicket,  and  I  had  n't  had 
anything  to  eat  for  two  days  and  a  night.  A  little  girl, 
about  twelve  years  old,  I  reckon,  came  over  a  hill  and  down 
to  the  stream  by  the  thicket.  She  gathered  flowers  and  set 
them  around  a  big  rock  for  a  flower  doll  tea-party.  She  had 
two  little  apple  pies  and  she  put  those  in  the  middle  —  and 


THE   SOCIALIST   MEETING  205 

then  she  saw  me,  lying  in  the  thicket.  And  I  was  wearing"  — 
the  colour  flared  into  his  face,  then  ebbed —  "I  was  wearing 
stripes.  ...  I  don't  think  she  ever  thought  of  beingfrightened. 
She  gave  me  both  pies,  and  she  sat  and  talked  to  me  like  a 
friendly  human  being.  I  Ve  never  forgotten.  And  when  the 
dogs  came,  as  they  did  pretty  soon,  and  the  men  behind  them, 
she  lay  on  the  grass  and  cried  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  I've  never  forgotten.  That's  what  I  mean.  I  don't 
care  what  we've  done,  if  we're  not  fiends  incarnate,  and  very 
few  of  us  are,  we've  got  to  feel  toward  one  another  like  that. 
We've  got  to  feel,  'if  you  are  struck,  I  am  struck.  If  you 
are  wearing  stripes,  I  am  wearing  stripes.'  We've  got  to  feel 
something  more  than  Brotherhood.  We've  got  to  feel  iden 
tity.  And  as  a  part,  anyway,  of  that  road  seems  to  me  to  be 
named  Socialization,  I'm  willing  to  be  called  a  Socialist." 

He  nodded  to  the  audience,  and,  stepping  from  the  plat 
form,  amid  a  clapping  of  hands  and  stamping  of  feet,  did  not 
return  to  his  place  in  the  back  of  the  hall,  but  sat  upon  the 
edge  of  the  stage,  his  hands  clasped  around  his  knee.  A  Ger 
man  clockmaker  and  a  fiery,  dark  woman  spoke  each  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  then  the  meeting  ended.  There  was  a 
noise  of  rising,  of  pushing  back  chairs,  a  surge  of  people,  in 
part  toward  the  exit,  in  part  toward  the  platform.  Hagar 
touched  Rachel  on  the  arm.  "Wait  here  for  me.  I  want  to 
speak  to  that  man.  —  Yes,  I  know  him.  Wait  here,  Rachel." 

She  made  her  way  to  the  space  before  the  platform  where 
men  and  women  were  pressing  about  the  speakers.  The  man 
with  the  grey  flannel  shirt  was  answering  a  question  or  two, 
put  by  the  dark-eyed  man  who  had  spoken  first.  He  stood 
with  a  certain  mountain  litheness  and  lack  of  tension.  A 


206  HAGAR 

movement,  his  answer  given,  brought  him  face  to  face  with 
Hagar.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat,  so  that  it  might  not  trou 
ble  the  people  behind  her,  and  she  had  it  still  in  her  hand. 
Her  dark,  soft  hair  framed  her  face  much  as  it  had  done  in 
childhood;  she  was  looking  at  him  with  wide,  startled  eyes. 

"I  had  to  come  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  glad 
you  came  through.  I  never  forgot  you  either." 

"' Forgot  you  either!'  —  "  The  man  stared  at  her. 

"  They  were  apple  turnovers,"  she  said;  but  before  she  had 
really  spoken  there  came  the  flush  and  light  of  recognition. 

"Oh— h! .  .  ."  He  fell  back  a  step;  then,  with  a  reddened 
cheek  and  a  light  in  his  eyes,  put  out  his  hand.  She  laid  hers 
in  it;  his  fingers  closed  over  hers  in  a  grasp  strong  enough  to 
give  pain. 

Then,  as  their  hands  dropped,  as  she  fell  back  a  little,  the 
second  speaker  came  between,  then  others.  Suddenly  the 
lights  were  lowered,  people  were  staying  too  long.  Rachel's 
hand  on  Hagar's  arm  drew  her  back.  "Come,  we  must  go!" 
Willy,  too,  was  insistent.  "It's  getting  late.  Show's  over!" 
The  space  between  her  and  the  boy  of  the  thicket,  the  figure 
drawn  against  the  sky  of  the  canal  lock,  widened,  filled  with 
forms  in  the  partial  dusk.  She  was  half-drawn,  half-pushed 
by  the  outgoing  stream  through  the  door,  out  upon  the  stair, 
and  so  down  to  the  street,  where  now  there  were  fewer  lights. 
The  wind  had  arisen  and  the  air  turned  colder.  "We'll  take 
this  cross-town  car,  and  then  the  Elevated,"  and  while  she 
was  still  bewildered,  they  were  on  the  car.  The  bell  clanged, 
they  went  on ;  again,  in  what  seemed  the  shortest  time,  they 
were  out  in  the  night,  then  climbing  the  long  stairs,  then 
through  the  gate  and  upon  the  rushing  Elevated.  Willy  talked 


THE  SOCIALIST   MEETING  207 

and  talked.  He  was  excited.  "I  thought  it  was  going  to  be 
all  about  bombs !  But  they  talked  sense,  did  n't  they  ? —  and 
there  was  something  in  the  air  that  kind  of  warmed  you  I 
Next  time  I  'm  in  New  York  I  'm  going  again.  Look  at  the 
lights  streaming  off!  By  Jiminy!  New  York's  great!" 

He  was  not  staying  at  the  Maines',  but  with  other 
kinspeople  a  few  blocks  away.  He  saw  the  two  in  at  the 
door,  said  good-night,  and  went  whistling  away.  Hagar  and 
Rachel  turned  off  the  lowered  gas  in  the  hall  and  went  softly 
upstairs. 

As  they  passed  Mrs.  Maine's  door  she  asked  sleepily  from 
within,  "Did  you  enjoy  the  play?" 

"We  did  n't  go,"  said  Rachel.  "We'll  tell  you  about  it  in 
the  morning." 

When  the  two  had  said  good-night  and  parted  and  Hagar, 
in  her  own  room,  kneeling  at  the  window,  looked  up  at  the 
Pleiades,  at  Aldebaran  —  only  then  came  the  realization 
that  she  did  not  know  that  man's  name,  that  she  had  never 
heard  it.  In  her  thoughts  he  had  always  been  "the  boy." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A    TELEGRAM 

THE  next  day  she  went  down  to  the  Settlement. 

Elizabeth  was  at  home.  "Yes,  I  could  give  you  a  list  of 
books  on  Socialism,  I  read  a  good  deal  along  those  lines  my 
self.  I  am  glad  you  are  interested." 

"I  am' interested,"  answered  Hagar.  "I  cannot  get  any 
of  "these  books  now,  but  I  am  looking  for  fifty  dollars,  and 
when  it  comes,  I  will." 

"But  I  can  lend  you  two  or  three,"  said  Elizabeth. 
"Won't  you  take  them  —  dear  Hagar?" 
-  She  regarded  the  younger  woman  with  her  steady,  friendly 
eyes,  her  strong  lips  just  parting  in  a  smile.  There  was  per 
haps  nine  years'  difference  in  their  ages,  but  mentally  they 
came  nearer.  It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  dropped  the 
formal  address. 

Hagar  answered  with  a  warm  colour  and  a  tremulous  light 
from  brow  to  chin.  "Yes,  if  you'll  be  so  good —  Elizabeth!" 

She  crossed  the  floor  with  the  other  to  the  long,  low,  book 
case.  Elizabeth  drew  out  a  couple  of  volumes.  "These  are 
good  to  begin  with — and  this."  She  stood  a  moment  in 
thought,  her  back  to  the  case,  her  elbow  resting  on  its  pol 
ished  top  and  her  head  upon  her  hand.  On  a  shelf  behind  her 
stood  a  small  bronze  Psyche,  a  photograph  of  Botticelli's 
Judith,  a  drawing  of  Florence  Nightingale.  "Hagar," 
said  Elizabeth,  "if  I  give  you  two  or  three  books  upon  the 


A  TELEGRAM  209 

position  of  woman  in  the  past  and  to-day,  will  you  read 
them?" 

"I  will  read  anything  you  give  me,  Elizabeth." 
She  took  her  parcel  of  books  and  went  back  to  the  Maines'. 
She  read  with  great  rapidity.  Her  memory  was  not  a  verbal 
one,  but  her  very  tissues  seemed  to  absorb  the  sense  of  what 
she  read.  Much  in  these  books  simply  formulated  for  her 
with  clearness  what  was  already  in  solution  in  her  mind.  Here 
and  there  she  was  conscious  of  lines  of  difference,  of  inward 
criticism,  but  in  the  main  they  but  enlarged  a  content  al 
ready  there,  but  brought  above  the  threshold,  named  and  fed 
what  she  was  already  thinking.  Her  mind  went  back  to 
Eglantine  and  Roger  Michael's  talk.  "No.  It  did  not  begin 
even  here.  It  was  in  me.  It  had  been  in  me  a  long  time, 
only  I  did  n't  know  it,  or  called  it  other  names." 

Before  these  books  were  finished  she  got  her  fifty  dollars 
from  the  magazine,  and  the  magazine  itself  was  sent  her  with 
her  story  in  it.  She  sat  and  read  the  story,  and  it  seemed 
strange  and  new  in  its  robe  of  print.  The  magazine  had  pro 
vided  an  illustration  —  and  how  strange  it  was  to  see  her 
figures  (or  rather  not  her  figures)  moving  and  laughing  there! 
Again  and  again,  after  the  first  time,  she  opened  the  maga-. 
zine  and  in  part  or  whole  read  the  story  and  gazed  upon  the 
illustration  —  half  a  dozen  or  more  times  during  the  first 
twenty-four  hours,  then  with  dwindling  frequency  day  after 
day,  for  a  week  or  so.  After  that  her  appetite  for  her  own 
completed  work  flagged.  She  laid  the  magazine  away,  and 
it  *was  years  before  she  read  that  story  again.  The  fifty  dol 
lars  —  She  put  thirty-five  away  to  go  toward  her  summer 
clothes  and  wrote  to  her  grandmother  that  she  had  done  so, 


210  HAGAR 

The  remaining  fifteen  she  expended  on  books,  taking*starred 
titles  from  Elizabeth's  list.  In  January  she  wrote  "The  Lame 
Duck."  She  sent  it  to  one  of  the  great  monthlies.  It  was 
accepted,  she  was  paid  a  fair  price,  and  the  monthly  gave  her 
to  understand  that  it  should  like  to  see  Hagar  Ashendyne*s 
next  story. 

The  letter  came  as  she  was  leaving  the  house  for  a  walk  in 
the  Park.  There  was  no  great  distance  to  go  before  you  came 
to  an  entrance,  and  she  often  went  alone  and  wandered  here 
and  there  by  herself.  The  country  was  in  her  veins;  not  to 
see  trees  and  grass  very  often  was  very  bad.  She  opened  the 
letter,  saw  what  it  was,  then  walked  on  in  a  rosy  mist.  After 
a  while,  out  under  the  branched  grey  trees,  she  found  a  bench, 
sat  down,  and  read  it  again  and  yet  again.  Her  soul  pas 
sioned  to  do  this  thing;  to  write,  to  write  well,  to  give  out 
wonderfully,  beautifully.  A  letter  that  told  her  it  was  so,  that 
she  wasfdoing  that  which,  with  the  strongest  longing,  she 
longed  to  do,  must  be  to  her  golden  as  a  love  letter.  With  it 
open  on  her  lap,  with  her  eyes  on  the  serene,  pearl-grey 
meadow  on  the  edge  of  which  she  sat,  she  stayed  a  long  time, 
dreaming.  A  young  man  and  woman,  lovers  evidently, 
slowly  passed  her  bench  beneath  the  trees.  She  watched  them 
with  tranquil  eyes.  "They're  lovers,"  and  she  felt  a  reflex  of 
their  bliss.  They  passed,  and  she  watched  as  happily  the 
grey  spaces  where  a  few  sheep  stirred,  and  the  edge  of  trees 
beyond,  dream  trees  in  the  mist. 

Quite  simply  she  fell  to  thinking  of  "the  boy."  He  had 
been  often  in  her  mind  since  the  evening  of  that  meeting;  she 
wondered  about  him  a  good  deal.  She  did  not  know  his  name ; 
she  had  no  idea  where  he  lived;  he  might  be  in  New  York  now, 


A  TELEGRAM  211 

or  he  might  not  be;  she  might  pass  him  in  the  street  and  not 
know  —  though,  indeed,  now  she  kept  a  lookout.  He  did 
not  know  her  name;  she  was  to  him  "the  little  girl"  as  he 
was  to  her  "the  boy."  They  might  never  meet  again,  but  she 
had  a  faith  that  it  would  not  be  so.  What  she  felt  toward  him 
was  but  friendliness,  concern,  and  some  admiration;  but  the 
feeling  had  a  soft  glow  and  pulse.  The  tmost  marked  thing 
was  the  consciousness  that  she  knew  him  truly;  reasoning  did 
not  come  into  it;  she  could  have  told  herself  a  dozen  times 
how  little  she  did  know,  and  it  would  have  made  no  differ 
ence.  It  was  as  though  the  boy  and  she  had  seen  each 
other's  essential  self  through  a  clear  pane  of  glass. 

Her  mind  did  not  dwell  long  upon  him  to-day.  She  sat 
with  her  hands  crossed  above  the  letter,  and  her  eyes,  half- 
veiled,  upon  the  far  horizon.  To  write  —  to  write  —  to  pro 
duce,  to  lead  forth,  to  give  birth,  to  push  out  and  farther  on 
forever,  to  make  a  beautiful  thing,  and  always  a  more  beauti 
ful  thing  —  always  —  always.  .  .  .  She  was  more  mind  than 
body  as  she  sat  there;  she  saw  her  thought-children  going  up 
to  heaven  before  her. 

There  came  an  impulse  to  look  on  beauty  that  other  minds 
had  sent  forth.  She  rose  and  walked,  with  her  light,  rhythmic 
swiftness,  northward  toward  the  Metropolitan.  When  she 
passed  the  turnstile  there  lacked  less  than  an  hour  of  closing 
time.  She  went  at  once  toward  the  rooms  where  were  the 
casts.  There  was  hardly  a  moving  figure  besides  herself;  there 
were  only  the  still,  white  giants.  She  entered  an  alcove  where 
there  was  a  seat  drawn  before  a  cast  of  the  tomb  of  Lorenzo 
de'  Medici.  She  sat  down  and  gazed  upon  Michael  Angelo's 
Thinker.  After  a  while  her  eyes  moved  to  the  great  figures 


212  HAGAR 

of  Twilight  and  Dawn,  and  then,  rising,  she  crossed  to  Guli- 
ano's  Tomb  and  stood  before  Day  and  Night.  Presently  she 
left  the  alcove,  and  crossing  by  the  models  of  the  Parthenon 
and  of  Notre  Dame  came  into  the  Hall  of  the  Antique  and 
into  the  presence  of  the  great  Venus.  Here  she  stayed  until 
a  man  came  through  the  place  and  said  it  was  closing  time. 

In  February  she  sent  to  the  same  monthly  "The  Mortal." 
It  passed  from  hand  to  hand  until  in  due  time  it  reached  the 
editor.  He  read  it,  then  strolled  into  the  assistant  editor's 
room : — "New  star  in  the  sky."  But  before  Hagar  could  hear 
from  the  monthly,  another  moment  in  her  life  was  here. 

A  week  after  she  had  mailed  this  story,  she  and  Rachel 
were  together  one  evening  in  the  latter's  room.  It  was  pour 
ing  rain,  and  there  would  be  no  company.  Supper  was  just 
over,  —  the  Maines  clung  to  supper,  —  and  the  children 
had  not  been  put  to  bed.  Nightgowned,  they  made  excur 
sions  and  alarms  from  their  nursery  into  their  mother's  room 
and  out  again  and  in  again.  Then  Rachel  turned  out  the 
gas,  and  they  all  sat  in  the  light  of  the  coal  fire,  and  first 
Rachel  told  a  story,  and  then  Betty  told  one,  and  then  Hagar, 
and  then  Charley.  They  were  all  stories  out  of  Mother 
Goose,  so  no  one  had  to  wait  long  for  their  turn.  Then  Hagar 
had  to  tell  about  Bouncing  Bet  and  Creeping  Charley,  which 
was  a  continued  story  with  wonderful  adventures,  an  adven 
ture  a  night.  Then  the  clock  struck  eight  with  a  leaden 
sound,  and  Mammy  appeared  in  the  nursery  door.  "You 
carry  me!"  cried  Bouncing  Bet,  and  "You  carry  me!"  cried 
Creeping  Charley.  So  Rachel  took  one  and  Hagar  took  the 
other,  mounted  them  like  papooses,  and  in  the  nursery  shot 
each  into  the  appropriate  small,  white  bed. 


A   TELEGRAM  213 

Back  before  the  fire,  with  the  lights  still  out,  the  two  sat 
for  a  time  in  silence.  Hagar  had  a  story  in  mind.  She  was 
musing  it  out,  seeing  the  figures  come  true  in  the  lit  hollows. 
Rachel  had  a  habit  of  crooning  to  herself.  She  went  on  now 
with  one  of  the  children's  rhymes :  — 

"  Baa,  baa,  Black  Sheep, 

Have  you  any  wool?" 
"Yes,  sir,  yes,  sir,  three  bags  full  — 

One  for  my  master  and  one  for  my  dame, 
And  one  for  the  little  boy  that  lives  in  the  lane!" 

Hagar  stirred,  lifted  her  arms,  and  clasped  her  hands  be 
hind  her  head.  "How  the  rain  pours!  The  winter  is  nearly 
over.  It  has  been  a  wonderful  winter." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  've  found  it  so,"  said  Rachel.  "  You  Ve  got 
a  wonder-world  of  your  own,  behind  your  eyes.  Everything 
spins  out  for  good  for  you  sooner  or  later  and  somehow  or 
other.  You're  lucky  I" 

"Are  n't  you  lucky,  too?  Have  n't  you  liked  this  winter?" 

1  Oh,  I've  liked  it  so-so!   I've  liked  you." 

"Rachel,  I  wish  you'd  be  happy.  You've  got  those  dar 
ling  children." 

"  I  am  happy  where  the  children  touch.  And,  oh,  yes,  they 
touch  a  long  way  round!  But  there's  a  gap  in  the  circle  where 
you  go  out  lonely  and  come  in  lonely." 

"That 's  true  of  everybody's  circle:  —  mine,  yours,  every 
body's.  But  you  chafe  so.  You  blow  the  coals  with  your 
breath." 

"I  don't  need  to  blow  the  coal.   It  burns  without  that 

Let  me  tell  you,  Hagar.  There  are  two  kinds  of  people  in  the 
world.  The  people  who  are  half  or  maybe  two  thirds  the  way 


214  HAGAR 

out  of  the  pit  and  the  mire  and  the  slough  and  the  shadow  so 
thick  you  can  cut  it!  They  are  rising  still,  and  their  garments 
are  getting  clean  and  white,  and  they  can  see  the  wonderful 
round  landscape,  and  they  look  at  it  with  calm,  wide  eyes. 
They're  nearly  out;  they're  more  or  less  spectators.  The 
other  kind  —  they're  the  poor,  dull,  infuriated  actors. 
They're  still  in;  they  can  hardly  see  even  the  rim  of  the  pit. 
The  first  kind  wants  to  help  and  does  help.  It's  willing  for 
the  othejrs  to  lay  hold  of  its  hands,  its  skirts,  to  drag  out  by. 
It's  willing  as  an  angel,  and  often  the  others  would  n't  get  out 
at  all  if  it  did  n't  give  aid.  But  it's  seen,  of  course,  and  it's 
away  beyond.  .  .  .  People  like  Elizabeth  Eden,  for  instance. 
.  .  .  But  the  other  kind  —  my  kind.  —  It's  all  personal  with 
us  yet  —  we're  fighting  and  loving  and  hating,  down  here  in 
the  muck  and  turmoil  —  all  of  us  who  are  yet  devils,  and 
those  who  are  half-devils,  and  those  of  us  who  are  just  getting 
vision  and  finding  the  stepping-stones  —  the  animal  and  the 
half-animal,  and  those  who've  only  got  pointed  ears  —  all 
resenting  and  striking  out  and  trampling  one  another,  know 
ing,  some  of  us,  that  there  are  better  things  and  yet  not  know 
ing  how  to  get  the  shining  garments;  others  not  caring  — 
Oh,  I  tell  you,  life's  a  bubbling  cauldron!" 

"  I  know  it  is  —  deep  above  and  deep  below.   But  — " 

Rachel  rose,  went  to  the  window,  and  stood,  brow  against 

the  pane,  looking  out.  The  rain  dashed  against  the  glass;  all 

the  street  lights  were  blurred;  the  gusty  wind  shook  the  bare 

boughs  of  the  one  tree  upon  the  block.   "You  don't  know 

anything  about  my  married  life.  Well,  I  'm  going  to  tell  you." 

She  came  back  to  the  fire,  pushed  a  footstool  upon  the 

hearth,  and  sat  down,  crouching  close  to  the  flame.   "  I  'm  not 


A  TELEGRAM  215 

yet  twenty-six.  I  was  married  to  Julian  Bolt  when  I  was 
eighteen.  I'd  known  him  —  or  I  thought  I'd  known  him  — 
for  years.  His  mother  and  sisters  went  in  summer  to  the 
place  in  the  mountains  where  we  always  went.  They  had 
money,  though  less  than  people  supposed.  Julian  spent  two 
weeks  with  them  each  summer.  He  was  older  than  I,  of 
course,  —  years  older.  But  he  used  to  row  us  girls  upon  the 
lake,  and  to  play  tennis  with  us,  and  we  thought  him  wonder 
ful.  We  called  him  'The  Prince.'  As  I  got  older,  he  rowed 
me  sometimes  alone  on  the  lake,  and  now  and  then  we  went 
for  a  walk  together.  He  was  good-looking,  and  he  dressed 
and  talked  well,  and  he  spent  money.  I  had  heard  somebody 
call  him  '  a  man-about-town '  —  but  I  did  n't  know  what 4  a 
man-about-town '  meant.  There  were  two  or  three  families 
in  the  place  with  daughters  out  or  about  to  come  out,  and 
they  made  Julian  Bolt  very  welcome.  I  never  heard  a  father 
or  mother  there  say  a  word  against  him.  Mine  did  n't. 

"Well,  I  came  out  very  early,  and  the  summer  after,  when 
I  went  to  Virginia,  to  the  White  with  my  aunt,  and  that  win 
ter  when  I  stayed  with  some  army  people  at  Old  Point,  he 
came  to  both  places,  and  I  knew  that  he  came  to  see  me. 
He  told  me  so.  ...  Of  course,  though  I  would  have  died 
rather  than  say  it,  even  to  myself,  of  course,  I  was  expecting 
men  to  fall  in  love  with  me  and  ask  me  to  marry  them  —  and 
expecting  to  choose  one,  having  first,  of  course,  fallen  in  love 
with  him,  and  be  married  in  white  satin  and  old  lace,  and  be 
romantically  happy  and  provided  for  ever  after!  Is  n't  that 
the  thinking  role  for  every  properly  brought-up  girl?  The 
funny  thing  is  that  I  'd  rather  die  than  see  Betty  come  upon 
that  treadmill  they  've  built  for  a  girl 's  mind ! .  .  .  Well,  I  was 
on  it  all  right.  .  .  . 


2i6  HAGAR 

"Julian  had  money,  and  he  spent  it  recklessly.  I  did  n't 
see  how  recklessly;  I  did  n't  see  anything  except  that  he  liked 
me;  for  he  sent  me  the  most  beautiful  flowers,  the  most  ex 
pensive  bon-bons  and  books  and  magazines.  It  was  a  gay 
winter.  Looking  back,  it  seems  to  me  that  everybody  was 
eating  and  drinking,  for  to-morrow  we  die.  I  knew  I  must  fall 
in  love  —  that  had  been  suggested  to  me,  suggested  for  years, 
just  as  regularly  and  powerfully  as  any  hypnotist  could  do  it. 
The  whole  world  was  bent  on  suggesting  it  to  every  young 
girl.  You  see,  the  world's  selfish.  It  wants  to  live,  and  it 
can't  live  unless  the  young  girl  says  Yea.  And  it  can't  leave 
it,  or  it  thinks  it  can't,  to  Nature  working  in  a  certain  number 
in  her  own  good  time.  It  must  cheat  and  beguile  and  train 
the  girl  —  every  girl  —  every  girl!  I  tell  you,  I  did  n't  know 
any  more  about  marriage  than  I  did  about  life  on  the  planet 
Mars !  I  was  packing  my  trunks  for  a  voyage  —  and  I  did  n't 
know  where  I  was  going.  I  did  n't  know  anything  about  it. 
No  one  offered  me  a  Baedeker.  ...  It  was  orange  blossoms 
and  a  veil  and  a  ring  —  and  I  did  n't  know  what  either  meant 
—  and  felicitations  and  presents  and  'Hear  the  golden  wed 
ding-bells!'  and  'They  lived  happily  ever  after.'  Julian  was 
handsome  and  lavish  and  popular,  and  his  family  were  all 
right,  and  if  he  had  been  gay  he  would  now  settle  down;  and 
father  and  mother  were  satisfied,  and  people  said  I  was  to  be 
envied.  ...  I  married  at  eighteen.  I  had  n't  read  much.  I 
did  n't  know  anything.  No  one  told  me  anything.  Maybe 
the  world  thinks  that  if  it  tells,  the  young  girl  would  say  No. 

"We  went  on  a  wedding-trip.  I  suppose  sometimes  a  wed 
ding-trip  is  n't  a  mockery.  I  'm  not  so  bitter  as  not  to  know 
that  often  it  is  n't  so  —  that  often  it  is  all  right.  I  'm  not 


A   TELEGRAM  217 

denying  love,  and  clean  men  and  considerate.  I  'm  not  de 
nying  hosts  of  marriages  that  without  any  very  high  ideal  are 
fit  and  decent  enough.  I'm  not  denying  noble  lovers  —  men 
and  women  —  and  noble  marriages.  I'm  only  saying  that 
the  other  kind,  the  kind  that's  not  fit  nor  clean  nor  decent 
and  anything  but  noble,  is  so  frequent  and  commonplace 
that  it  is  rather  laughable  and  altogether  sardonic  and  devilish 
to  kneel  down  and  worship  as  we  do  the  Institution  of  Staying 
Together  —  Staying  Together  at  any  price,  even  when  evi 
dently  the  only  clean  thing  to  do  would  be  to  Stay  Apart.  .  .  . 
My  wedding-trip  lasted  four  months.  I  went  eighteen,  and  I 
came  back  old  as  I  am  now  —  older  than  I  am  now;  for  I  have 
grown  younger  these  last  two  years.  My  marriage  was  n't 
the  noble  kind.  It  was  the  kind  you  could  n't  make  noble. 
It  was  n't  even  the  decent,  low-order  type.  It  was  a  sink  and 
a  pit  and  a  horror." 

She  bent  and  stirred  the  fire.  Outside  the  gusty  wind 
went  by  and  the  rain  beat  upon  the  windows.  "I  know  that 
there  are  marriages  where  woman  is  the  ruiner.  There  are 
women  who  are  wreckers.  They  fasten  themselves  on  a 
man's  life  and  drain  it  dry.  They  are  devil-fish.  They  hold 
him  in  their  arms  and  break  his  bones.  They're  among  the 
worst  of  us  struggling  here  in  the  pit.  They're  wicked  wo 
men.  They  may  be  fewer  than  wicked  men,  or  they  may  be 
equal  in  number,  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  talking  of  wicked 
men  or  wicked  women  in  that  sense.  I'm  talking  of  men 
whom  the  world  does  not  call  wicked,  and  of  a  great  army  of 
women  like  myself,  an  army  that  stretches  round  the  world 
and  through  hundreds  of  years.  ...  An  army?  It  isn't  an 
army.  We  never  had  any  weapons.  We  were  never  taught 


2i  8  HAGAR 

to  fight.  We  were  never  allowed  to  ask  questions.  We  were 
told  there  were  no  questions  to  ask.  We  were  young  girls, 
dreaming,  dropped  into  the  wolf  pack  .  .  .  and  it  goes  on  all 
the  time.  It  is  going  on  now.  It  may  be  going  on  when  Betty 
grows  up  —  though  I '11  tell  her!  You  need  n't  be  afraid.  I '11 
tell  her.  .  . . 

"That  wedding  trip  —  that  honeymoon.  I  had  married 
a  handsome  beast  —  a  cruel  one,  too.  He  treated  me  like  a 
slave,  bought  for  one  purpose,  wanted  for  one  purpose,  kept 
for  one  purpose.  I  was  n't  enough  for  him  —  I  found  that 
out  very  soon.  But  those  others  were  freer  than  I.  They 
made  him  pay  them.  . .  .  He  would  have  said  that  he  paid  me, 
too;  that  he  supported  me.  Perhaps  it's  true.  I  only  know 
that  I  am  going  to  have  Betty  taught  to  support  herself." 

"You  should  have  left  him." 

"We  were  in  Europe.  I  had  n't  any  money.  I  was  beaten 
down  and  stunned.  When  I  tried  to  write  to  father  and  mo 
ther,  I  could  n't.  They  would  have  said  that  I  was  hysteri 
cal,  and  for  God's  sake  to  consider  the  family  name! ...  I 
have  been  a  woman  slow  to  develop  mentally.  What  poise 
I've  got,  what  reading,  what  knowledge,  what  everything, 
has  come  to  me  since  that  time.  Then  I  did  n't  know  how  to 
hold  my  head  up  and  march  out.  Then  I  only  wanted  to 
die.  .  .  .  We  came  home,  and  it  was  to  find  father  with  a  des 
perate  illness.  I  could  n't  tell  mother  then.  I  doubt  if  I 
-could  ever  have  told  her.  I  doubt  if  it  would  have  done  any 
good  if  I  had.  .  .  .  We  went  to  live  in  a  house  up  on  the  Sound. 
Julian  said  his  fortune  was  getting  low,  and  that  it  would  be 
cheaper  there.  But  he  himself  came  into  town  and  stayed 
when  he  wished.  He  spent  a  great  deal  of  money.  I  do  not 


A   TELEGRAM  219 

know  what  he  did  with  it.  He  threw  away  all  that  he  had.  .  . . 
I  knew  by  now  that  Betty  was  coming.  She  was  born  before 
I  was  nineteen.  And  Charley  was  born  a  year  afterward  — 
born  blind,  and  I  knew  why.  I  loved  my  children.  But  my 
marriage  remained  what  it  had  always  been.  When  Charley 
was  nearly  a  year  old,  I  could  n't  stand  it  any  longer.  If  I 
could  stand  it  for  myself,  I  saw  that  I  could  n't  stand  it  for 
them.  I  could  n't  let  them  grow  up  having  that  kind  of  a 
mother,  the  kind  that  would  stand  it.  ...  Julian  went  away. 
Every  two  or  three  months  he  took  all  the  money  he  could 
lay  his  hands  on  and  disappeared.  I  knew  that  he  had  dived 
into  all  that  goes  on  here,  in  some  places,  in  this  city.  He 
would  be  gone  sometimes  two  weeks,  sometimes  longer.  .  .  • 
Well,  this  time  I  took  Betty  and  Charley  and  came  home, 
came  here  —  and  they  tried  to  persuade  me  to  go  back.  The 
Bishop  was  here,  visiting  his  nephew,  and  he  came  and 
tried  to  persuade  me  to  go  back.  But  I  would  n't  ...  and 
there  was  no  need.  Within  the  week  Julian  was  killed  in  a 
fray  in  a  house  a  mile,  I  suppose,  from  where  we  sit.  That 
was  two  years  ago." 

She  rose  and  moved  about  the  firelit  room.  "Yes,  I 've  got 
the  two  children,  and  life's  healing  over.  I  don't  call  myself 
unhappy  now.  At  times  I'm  quite  gay  —  and  you  don't 
know  how  eerie  it  feels!  But  happy  or  not,  Hagar,  I'll  never 
forget  —  I'll  never  forget — I'll  never  forget  1  They  talk 
about  the  end  of  the  century,  and  about  our  seeing  the  begin 
ning  of  better  things.  They  say  the  twentieth  century  will  be 
an  age  of  clearer  Thinking  and  greater  Courage,  and  they  talk 
about  the  coming  great  Movements.  —  There's  one  Move 
ment  that  I  want  to  see,  and  that's  the  Movement  to  tell  the 


220  HAGAR 

young  girl.  If  I  were  the  world  I  would  n't  have  my  dishon 
oured  life  as  it  gets  it  now.  .  .  .  And  now  let's  talk  about  some 
thing  else." 

Hagar  crossed  to  her,  took  her  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  her 
lips  and  forehead.  "I  love  you,  Rachel.  Come,  let's  look  at 
the  rain,  how  it  streams  I  Listen!  Is  n't  that  thunder?" 

They  stood  at  the  window  and  looked  out  upon  the  slant 
ing  lines  and  the  glistening  asphalt.  The  doorbell  rang. 

"Who  on  earth  can  that  be?"  Rachel  went  to  the  door, 
opened  it,  and  stood  listening.  "  A  telegram.  Dicey  is  bring 
ing  it  up.  It's  for  you,  Hagar." 

She  struck  a  match  and  lit  the  gas.  Hagar  opened  the 
brown  envelope  and  unfolded  the  sheet  within.  The  tele 
gram  was  from  Gilead  Balm,  from  her  grandfather:  — 

Cables  from  physician  and  Consul  at  Alexandria.  Terrible 
accident.  Yacht  on  which  were  Medway  and  his  wife  wrecked. 
His  wife  drowned,  body  not  recovered.  Medway  seriously  in 
jured.  Life  not  despaired  o/,  but  believe  it  will  leave  him  crip 
pled.  Ill  in  hotel  there.  Unconscious  at  present.  Every  atten 
tion.  Your  grandmother  will  fret  herself  ill  unless  I  go.  Insists 
that  you  accompany  me.  Have  telegraphed  for  passage  on  boat 
sailing  Saturday.  Arrive  in  New  York  Friday  morning.  Get 
ready.  —  Argall  Ashendyne. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ALEXANDRIA 

UMY  master,"  said  the  valet,  "is  fond  of  Cairo  and  detests 
Alexandria.  As  soon  as  he  is  able  to  be  moved,  if  not  sooner, 
he  will  wish  to  be  moved." 

"He  is  not  able  now,"  said  Hagar. 

"No,  Miss.  He  is  still  delirious." 

"The  doctor  says  that  he  is  very  ill." 

"Yes,  Miss.  But  if  I  may  make  so  bold,  I  think  Mr.  Ash- 
endyne  will  recover.  I  have  lived  with  him  a  long  time,  Miss." 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Thomson,  Miss." 

The  Colonel  entered.  "He  did  n't  know  me.  Nor  would 
I  have  known  him.  He  is  pretty  badly  knocked  to  pieces.  — 
What  have  you  got  there?  Tea?  I  want  coffee."  Thomson 
moved  to  the  bell,  and  gave  the  order  to  the  Arab  who  ap 
peared  with  the  swiftness  of  a  genie.  "  Is  there  anything  else, 
sir?" 

"No,  not  now." 

"The  English  papers  are  upon  the  small  table,  sir."  And 
Thomson  glided  from  the  room. 

The  Colonel  looked  about  him.  "Humph!  Millionaires 
fix  themselves  luxuriously." 

"  I  keep  seeing  her,"  said  Hagar.  "Her  body  lying  drowned 
there." 


222  HAGAR 

The  Colonel  glanced  at  her.  "Pull  yourself  together, 
Gipsy!  Whatever  you  do,  don't  get  morbid." 

"I  won't,"  Hagar  answered.  "I'm  like  you  there,  grand 
father.  I  hate  it.  But  it  is  n't  morbidness  to  think  a  little  of 
her." 

The  Arab  brought  the  coffee.  "Turkish  coffee!"  said  the 
Colonel,  not  without  relish  in  his  voice.  "  I  always  wanted  to 
taste  — "  He  did  so,  appreciatively.  "Ah,  it's  good  — "  He 
leaned  back  in  the  deep  wicker  chair  and  gazed  upon  the 
latest  attendant.  "And  what  may  be  your  name?" 

The  figure  spread  its  hands  and  said  something  unintelli 
gible.  "Humph!  Comment  vous  nommez-vous?" 

"Mahomet,  Monsieur." 

"We've  come,  Gipsy,"  said  the  Colonel,  "far  from  old  Vir 
ginia.  Well,  I  always  wanted  to  travel,  but  I  never  could.  I 
had  a  sense  of  responsibility." 

It  struck  Hagar  with  the  force  of  novelty  that  what  he 
said  was  true.  He  had  such  a  sense.  There  had  always  been 
times  when  she  did  not  like  her  grandfather,  and  times  when 
she  did.  But  during  the  last  two  weeks,  filled  with  a  certain 
loneliness  and  strangeness  for  them  both,  she  had  felt  nearer 
to  him  than  ever  before.  There  had  chanced  to  be  on  the 
boat  few  people  whom  he  found  congenial.  He  had  been 
forced  to  fall  back  upon  his  granddaughter's  companionship, 
and  in  doing  so  he  had  made  the  discovery  that  the  child  had 
a  mind.  He  liked  mind.  Of  old,  when  he  was  most  sarcasti 
cally  harsh  toward  Maria,  he  had  yet  grudgingly  admitted 
that  she  had  mind  —  only,  which  was  the  deep  damnation, 
she  used  it  so  wrongheadedly !  But  Gipsy  —  Gipsy  would  n't 
have  those  notions !  The  Laydon  matter  had  been  just  a  fool- 


ALEXANDRIA  223 

ish  girl's  affair.  She  had  been  obstinate,  but  she  had  seen  her 
mistake.  As  for  Ralph  —  Ralph  would  get  her  yet.  The 
Colonel  had  been  careful,  in  their  intercourse  during  the  voy 
age,  to  bring  forward  none  of  her  mother's  notions.  He  found 
that  she  knew  really  an  amazing  amount  of  geography  and 
history,  that  to  a  certain  extent  she  followed  public  events, 
that  she  knew  Byron  and  could  quote  Milton,  and  that 
though  she  had  no  Greek  (he  had  forgotten  most  of  his),  she 
was  familiar  with  translations  and  could  not  only  give  a  con 
nected  account  of  the  Olympian  family,  but  could  follow  in 
their  windings  the  minor  myths.  The  long  voyage,  the  hours 
when  they  reclined  side  by  side  in  their  steamer  chairs,  or 
with  the  country  need  for  exercise  paced  from  prow  to  stern, 
and  from  stern  to  prow,  taught  him  more  about  his  grand 
daughter  than  had  done  the  years  at  Gilead  Balm.  She  told 
him  of  the  acceptance  of  "The  Lame  Duck"  and  the  sending 
of  "The  Mortal, "and  he  was  indulgent  toward  her  prospects. 
"There  have  been  women  who  have  done  very  good  work  of 
a  certain  type.  It's  limited,  but  it's  good  of  its  kind.  As 
letter-writers  they  have  always  excelled.  Of  course,  it  is  n't 
necessary  for  you  to  write,  and  in  the  Old  South,  at  least, 
we  've  always  rather  deprecated  that  kind  of  thing  for  a 


woman." 


The  Colonel  drank  his  thick  coffee  from  its  little  metal  cup 
with  undeniable  and  undenied  pleasure.  He  was  not  hypo 
critical,  and  he  never  canted.  His  only  son  lay  in  a  large  bed 
room  of  this  luxurious  suite,  maimed  and  hardly  conscious, 
and  whether  he  would  live  or  die  no  one  knew.  But  the  Col 
onel  had  never  wept  over  Medway  in  the  past  and  he  was  not 
going  to  weep  now.  He  drank  his  coffee  leisurely,  and  when 


224  HAGAR 

it  was  done  Mahomet  took  salver  and  cup  away.  Rising,  the 
Colonel  walked  to  one  of  the  windows  and  stood  looking  out 
at  a  bougainvillaea-covered  wall,  a  shaggy  eucalyptus  tree, 
and  a  seated  beggar,  fearful  to  the  eye.  It  was  afternoon, 
and  they  had  been  in  Alexandria  since  eight  o'clock.  "I  sent 
a  cable  to  your  grandmother.  The  doctors  think  he's  holding 
his  own,  but  I  don't  know.  It  looks  pretty  bad.  They've  got 
a  nurse  from  a  hospital  here,  —  two,  in  fact,  —  and  that  man 
Thomson  is  invaluable.  .  .  .  I've  seen,  too,  this  morning,  be 
fore  they  let  me  into  the  room,  his  wife's  brother.  It  seems 
that  he  was  in  London  at  the  time,  and  came  on  and  has  very 
properly  waited  here  for  our  arrival.  We  walked  through  the 
Place  Mahomet  Ali,  and  he  took  me  to  a  very  good  club, 
where  we  sat  and  talked.  .  .  .  Her  will  —  it's  rather  curious. 
I  suppose  Medway,  if  he  lives,  will  be  disappointed.  And  yet, 
with  care,  he'll  have  enough."  The  Colonel  laughed,  rather 
grimly.  "We'd  think  in  Virginia,  that  a  million  was  a  good 
livelihood,  but  standards  are  changing,  and  doubtless  he's 
been  feeling  many  times  that  amount  between  his  fingers.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  they  must  have  quarrelled.  It's  like  a 
woman  to  fling  off  and  do  a  thing  like  that  hastily.  Her 
brother  says,  however,  that  he  believes  they  were  really 
happy  together.  He  fancies  that  she  had  some  feminine 
scruple  or  other  as  to  the  way  her  first  husband  obtained  his 
wealth,  —  as  the  world  goes,  entirely  honourable  transac 
tions,  I  believe,  —  and  that  she  had  an  idea  of  'restoring'  it. 
She  made  this  last  will  in  London,  just  before  they  started  on 
this  long  trip  that's  ended  so.  It's  been  read.  There's  a 
string  of  bequests  to  servants  and  so  on.  She  leaves  just  one 
million,  well  invested,  to  Medway.  The  rest,  and  it's  an  enor- 


ALEXANDRIA  225 

mous  rest,  goes  into  a  fund,  for  erecting  model  lodging-houses 
and  workmen's  dwellings.  Philanthropy  mad!"  said  the 
Colonel.  "Her  brother's  got,  I  understand,  some  millions  of 
his  own,  and  he  could  afford  to  smile.  Also,  he's  been  sup 
posing  for  a  year  that  it  would  all  go  to  Medway.  Well,  that's 
where  Medway  is  —  if  he  lives.  Fifty  thousand  or  so  a  year," 
said  the  Colonel,  regarding  the  beggar,  "is  not  an  income  to 
be  despised.  I  should  be  happy  if  I  saw,  each  year,  in  clear 
money,  an  eighth  as  much." 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door  and  the  physician  en 
tered.  He  was  an  American,  a  young,  fresh-coloured  man 
with  an  air  of  strength  and  capability.  He  had  lunched  with 
the  two  Ashendynes,  and  now  came  in  as  one  at  home.  He 
looked  graver  now  than  then;  there  was  a  plain  cloud  upon 
his  brow.  "  I  don't  believe  he  can  hold  out,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"He  has  a  magnificent  constitution,  and  his  body  is  making 
a  splendid  fight,  but  —  It  may  come  at  any  minute  with  a 
quick  collapse.  Of  course,  I'm  not  saying  that  it  will  be  so. 
But  if  Miss  Ashendyne  wishes  to  see  him,  or  to  be  with  him 
if  it  should  happen  to  be  the  end  — " 

Hagar  turned  deadly  pale.  The  Colonel,  not  usually  con 
siderate  of  her  or  given  to  thinking  that  she  needed  considera 
tion,  was  somehow  different  to-day.  "If  you'd  rather  not, 
Gipsy  — ?  Indeed,  I  think  that  you  had  better  not.  It  is  n't 
as  though  you  had  been  always  with  him."  He  turned  to  the 
physician.  "  She  has  seen  very  little  of  her  father  since  baby 
hood." 

But  Hagar  had  steadied  herself  and  risen  from  her  chair. 
"Thank  you,  grandfather,  but  I  would  rather  go  with  you." 
It  was  almost  sunset,  and  the  splendid  western  light  flooded 


226  HAGAR 

the  chamber  where  the  sick  man  lay.  He  lay  low  upon  the 
pillows,  with  only  a  light  covering.  There  had  been,  beside 
injuries  to  spine  and  limb,  and  some  internal  hurt,  a  bad 
blow  over  the  head.  This  was  bandaged ;  fold  after  fold  of 
gauze  wrapped  around  forehead  and  crown.  "Oh,"  thought 
Hagar,  "it  is  like  the  white  helmet  in  that  dream  1"  But 
the  features  below  were  not  flushed  with  health;  they  were 
grey  and  drawn.  The  second  physician,  standing  at  the  bed 
head,  lifted  his  hand  from  the  pulse  and  moved  to  the  side  of 
the  first.  "A  little  stronger."  The  nurse  placed  a  chair  for 
Hagar.  Thomson,  at  the  windows,  raised  the  jalousies  higher, 
and  the  light  evening  breeze  blew  through  the  room.  "  It 
may  or  it  may  not  be,"  said  the  first  doctor  in  a  low  voice 
to  the  Colonel.  "If  he  pulls  through  to-night,  I'll  say  he 
wins." 

The  amber,  almost  red,  light  of  the  sun  bathed  the  bed. 
When  the  sun  sank,  a  violet  light  covered  it.  When  the  short 
twilight  was  gone,  and  the  large,  mild  stars  shone  out,  they 
brought  shaded  lamps,  and  the  bed  lay  half  in  that  light  and 
half  in  the  shadow.  In  the  room,  through  the  slow  passing 
hours,  hushed,  infrequent  movements  took  place,  the  doc 
tors  relieving  each  other  in  the  watch  ,by  the  bed,  the  night 
nurse  arriving,  the  giving  of  stimulants,  whispered  consulta 
tions  by  the  window.  The  adjoining  room  was  prepared  for 
rest  and  relaxation;  there  was  a  table  with  bread  and  cold 
meat  and  wine.  The  Colonel  came  and  went,  noiseless  as  a 
shadow,  but  a  restless  shadow.  Once  or  twice  during  the 
night  his  touch  upon  her  shoulder  or  his  hand  beckoning  from 
the  doorway  drew  Hagar  forth.  "You'd  better  rest,  child. 
Here,  drink  this  wine!"  Each  time  she  stayed  half  an  hour 


ALEXANDRIA  227 

or  so,  either  in  the  room  or  out  upon  the  balcony  which  gave 
upon  a  garden,  but  then  she  stole  back  into  the  bedroom. 

She  sat  in  a  big  chair  which  she  had  drawn  aside  and  out  of 
the  way.  She  could,  however,  see  the  bed  and  the  figure  upon 
it;  not  clearly,  because  the  lights  were  low,  but  dimly.  She 
rather  felt  than  saw  it;  it  was  as  though  a  sixth  sense  were 
busy.  She  sat  very  still.  Her  father.  .  .  .  Through  her  mind, 
automatically,  without  any  conscious  willing,  drifted  words 
and  images  that  spoke  of  father  and  child.  It  might  be  a 
Bible  verse,  it  might  be  a  line  from  a  younger  poet,  it  might 
be  an  image  from  some  story  or  history.  Father  and  child  — 
father  and  daughter  —  father  and  daughter.  .  .  .  To  sit  and 
see  her  father  die,  and  to  feel  no  deep  sorrow,  no  rending 
sense  of  companionship  departing,  no  abject,  suffocating 
pulsing  of  a  stricken  heart,  no  lifted  hope  and  faith  or  terror 
for  him,  no  transcending  sense  of  self-relinquish ment,  while 
the  loved  one  flew  farther  and  swifter  and  higher  out  of  her 
sight,  away  from  this  life's  low  level.  .  .  .  She  could  not  feel 
any  of  that.  As  little  as  the  Colonel  did  she  believe  in  or 
practise  cant.  She  knew  that  she  could  not  feel  it  thus,  and 
knew  why.  But  there  was  a  great  forlornness  in  sitting  there 
and  watching  this  stranger  die. 

She  tried  to  strengthen  the  faint  memories  that  the  past 
held.  Was  she  five  or  six  years  old  the  last  time  she  had  seen 
him?  The  distinctest  image  was  of  underneath  the  cedars  at 
Gilead  Balm.  There  was  a  shawl  spread  upon  the  grass.  Her 
father  was  lying  on  it,  his  hat  tilted  over  his  eyes.  There  was 
a  book  beside  him.  She  had  been  gathering  dandelions,  and 
she  came  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  shawl  and  opened 
the  book.  She  thought  every  book  had  pictures,  but  there 


228  HAGAR 

were  none  in  that  one.  Then  he  had  waked  up  and  laughed 
at  her,  and  said,  "Come  here!"  —  It  flashed  into  her  con 
sciousness,  from  where  it  had  lain  unrecalled  all  these  years, 
just  what  he  had  said.  He  had  said,  "Come  here,  Miss 
Ugly,  Ill-omened  Name!"  She  had  gone,  and  in  playing  with 
her  he  had  accidentally  burned  her  finger  with  his  lighted 
cigar.  And  then  —  it  came  to  her  with  an  effect  of  warmth 
and  sunshine,  and  with  a  feeling  of  wanting  to  laugh,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  —  he  had  been  beautifully,  charmingly 
shocked  and  apologetic.  He  had  taken  her  away  and  made 
Old  Miss  bandage  the  finger,  and  then  he  had  shouldered  her 
and  carried  her  into  the  orchard  and  broken  boughs  of  apple 
blossoms  for  her  and  told  her  "Jack  and  the  Beanstalk."  .  .  . 
That  was  almost  all  she  could  remember;  or  if  there  were  one 
or  two  less  agreeable  things,  she  would  not  remember  those 
now.  She  tried  to  keep  the  warmth  about  her  heart;  on  the 
whole,  aided  by  human  pity  for  the  broken  form  upon  the 
bed,  she  succeeded  better  than  she  could  have  dreamed. 

The  man  upon  the  bed!  —  Outside  the  fatherhood,  out 
side  the  physical  relation  between  them  —  there  he  was,  a 
human  being  with  death  hovering  above.  It  was  easier 
to  think  of  him  just  as  a  fellow-being;  she  laid  hold  of  that 
thought  and  kept  it.  A  fellow-mortal  —  a  fellow-mortal. 
With  a  strange  sense  of  relief,  she  let  the  images  and  words 
and  the  painful  straining  for  some  filial  feeling  pass  from  her 
soul.  She  did  not  know  why  she  should  feel  toward  him 
filially;  he  had  not,  like  her  mother,  suffered  to  give  her 
life;  he  had  probably  never  thought  of  her;  she  had  not  been 
to  him  the  concern  in  the  matter.  Nor  hardly  since  had  he 
acted  parentally  toward  her.  With  a  wry  humour  she  had 


ALEXANDRIA  229 

to  concede  the  winter  in  New  York,  the  summer  at  the  New 
Springs,  but  it  hardly  seemed  that  the  sacrifice  could  have 
been  great,  or  that  the  need  for  gratitude  was  extreme.  Her 
soul  rose  against  any  hypocrisy.  She  could  not  and  she  would 
not  try  to  say,  "Dear  father  —  dear  father!"  The  vision  of 
her  mother  rose  beside  her.  .  .  .  But  just  to  think  of  him  as  a 
human  being  —  she  could  do  that;  a  man  lying  there  on  the 
knife  edge  of  the  present,  with  the  vast,  unplumbed  gulf 
before  him.  .  .  .  That  dream  of  the  blue  sea  and  the  palm 
trees  and  the  low  pale-coloured  houses  returned  to  mind,  but 
she  put  it  from  her  somewhat  shudderingly.  He  had  looked 
so  abounding  in  life,  so  vivid  and  vital,  with  the  white  hat 
like  a  helmet! ...  A  fellow-mortal,  lying  there,  helpless  and 
suffering.  .  .  . 

At  three  in  the  morning  the  physician  in  charge,  who  had 
been  sitting  for  some  time  beside  the  bed,  rose  and  moved 
away.  He  nodded  his  head  to  his  fellow.  Hagar  caught  the 
satisfaction  in  the  gesture  even  before,  in  passing  her  chair, 
he  paused  to  say  just  audibly,  "I  think  your  father  will  re 
cover."  A  short  time  passed,  and  then  the  Colonel  touched 
her  arm.  "They  think  it  safe  for  us  to  go.  He  is  stronger. 
Come!  They'll  call  if  there  is  any  need,  but  they  don't  think 
there  will  be." 

Going,  she  stopped  for  a  moment  close  beside  the  bed.  She 
had  not  been  this  near  before.  Medway  lay  there,  with  his 
head  swathed  in  bandages,  with  his  lips  and  chin  unshorn, 
with  no  colour  now  in  his  cheeks,  with  his  eyes  closed.  Hagar 
felt  the  sudden  smart  of  tears  between  her  own  lids.  The  gold 
thread  of  the  dandelion  day  tied  itself  to  the  natural  human 
pity  and  awe.  Her  lips  trembled.  "Father!"  she  said,  in  the 


230  HAGAR 

lowest  of  whispers.   Her  hand  moved  falteringly  until,  for 
the  lightest  moment,  it  rested  upon  his. 

In  the  outer  room  the  physician  joined  them.  "He  '11  still 
have  to  fight  for  it,  and  there  may  be  setbacks.  It's  going  to 
be  a  weary,  long,  painful  siege  for  him,  but  I  don't  believe 
he's  going  to  die.  Indeed,  I  think  that,  except  in  the  one  re 
spect,  we'll  get  him  back  to  being  a  well  man  with  a  long  life 
before  him." 

"And  that  respect?" 

"I'm  afraid,  Colonel  Ashendyne,  that  he'll  never  walk 
again.  If  he  does,  it  will  be  with  crutches  and  with  great 
difficulty." 

When,  half  an  hour  later,  Hagar  opened  the  door  of  her 
own  room,  the  dawn  was  coming.  It  was  a  comfortable 
bedroom,  large,  cool,  and  high-pitched,  and  it,  too,  had  a 
balcony.  The  bed  invited;  she  was  deadly  tired;  and  yet  she 
doubted  if  she  could  sleep.  She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  then,  a  little  stumblingly,  she 
went  out  upon  the  balcony.  It  was  a  small  place,  command 
ing  the  east.  There  was  a  chair  and  a  little  table  on  which 
you  could  rest  your  arms,  and  your  head  upon  them,  side 
ways  so  that  you  could  see  the  sky.  It  was  just  grey  light; 
there  were  three  palm  trees  rustling,  rustling.  After  a  while 
purple  came  into  the  sky,  and  then  pale,  pale  gold.  The  wind 
fell,  the  palms  stood  still,  the  gold  widened  until  all  the  east 
was  gold.  She  saw  distant,  strange,  flat  roofs,  a  distant  dome 
and  slender  towers,  all  against  the  pale,  pale  gold.  The  air 
was  cool  and  unearthly  still.  Her  head  upon  her  arm,  her 
face  very  quiet,  her  eyes  open  upon  the  deepening  light,  she 
stayed  until  the  gardeners  came  into  the  garden  below. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MEDWAY 

FIVE  days  later,  Medway,  one  morning,  recognized  the  Col 
onel.  "Why,  my  dear  father,  what  are  you  doing  here? .  .  . 
What's  it  all  about?"  His  feeble  voice  died  away;  without 
waiting  for  an  answer,  he  lapsed  into  a  kind  of  semi- 
consciousness.  Out  of  this,  day  by  day,  though,  he  came 
more  strongly.  Directly  he  appeared  to  accept,  without 
further  curiosity,  his  father's  occasional  presence  in  the  room. 
Another  interval,  and  he  began  to  question  the  physician  and 
nurses.  "Back,  eh?  —  and  leg,  and  this  thing  on  my  head. 
I  don't  remember.  —  A  kind  of  crash.  .  .  .  What  happened?" 

Evasive  answers  did  for  a  while,  but  it  was  evident  that 
they  would  not  do  for  ever.  In  the  end  it  was  Thomson 
who  told  him. 

"You  did,  did  you!"  exclaimed  the  doctor  in  the  outer 
room.  "Well,  I  don't  know  but  what  it 's  just  as  well!" 

"I  could  n't  help  it,  sir.   He  pinned  me  down." 

The  Colonel  spoke.  "Just  what  and  how  much  did  you 
tell  him?" 

"I  told  him,  sir,  about  the  wreck,  and  how  he  got  beaten 
about,  and  how  I  fastened  him,  when  he  was  senseless  and 
we  were  sinking,  to  a  bit  of  spar,  and  how  we  were  picked  up 
with  some  of  the  crew  about  dawn.  And  about  his  being 
brought  here,  and  being  very  well  cared  for,  and  your  coming 
from  New  York,  you  and  Miss  Ashendyne,  and  that  he'd 


232  HAGAR 

been  wonderful  close  to  dying,  but  was  all  right  now,  and 
what  the  date  was,  and  things  like  that,  sir." 

"Did  he  ask  for  his  wife?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  you  told  him?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  doctor  rose.  "Well,  I  'm  glad  it 's  done.  I  '11  go  see  —  " 
and  disappeared  into  the  sick-room. 

"  I  think  you  did  well,  Thomson,"  said  the  Colonel.  "When 
you've  got  to  take  a  thing,  you'd  better  stand  up  and  take 
it,  and  the  quicker  the  better." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Thomson;  and  adjusted  the  jalousies,  it 
being  now  very  warm  and  the  glare  at  times  insupportable. 

The  Colonel,  under  the  guidance  of  a  dragoman  of  the  best, 
had  been  shopping,  and  was  in  white  duck.  Hagar,  too,  had 
secured  from  a  French  shop  muslin  and  nainsook. 

Thomson  had  been  concerned  for  her  lack  of  any  maid  or 
female  companionship.  He  had  gently  broached  the  subject 
a  week  or  two  before.  "Mrs.  Ashendyne  had  an  excellent 
maid,  Miss,  who  was  with  us  on  the  yacht  that  night  and  was 
saved.  But  she's  of  a  high-wrought  nature,  and  the  shock 
and  cold  and  everything  rather  laid  her  up.  She  has  a  brother 
who  is  a  photographer  in  Cairo,  having  married  a  native 
woman,  and  she's  gone  to  stay  with  him  awhile,  before  she 
goes  back  into  service.  If  that  had  n't  been  the  case,  Miss, 
you  might,  if  you  wished,  have  taken  her  on.  I  think  she 
would  have  given  satisfaction.  As  it  is,  Miss,  I  know  some 
English  people  with  a  shop  here,  and  I  think  through  them 
I  could  find  you  some  one.  She  would  not  be  a  superior 
lady's  maid  like  Cecile,  but — " 


MEDWAY  233 

Hagar  had  declined  the  offer.  "I  never  had  a  maid,  thank 
you,  Thomson.  I  can  do  for  myself  very  well." 

She  liked  Thomson,  and  Thomson  agreed  with  the  nurse 
that  she  was  a  considerate  young  lady.  Now,  having  ad 
justed  the  blinds,  Thomson  left  the  room. 

The  Colonel  paced  up  and  down,  his  hands  behind  him. 
The  white  duck  was  becoming;  he  did  not  look  sixty.  Hair, 
mustache,  and  imperial  were  quite  grey;  except  for  that 
he  had  never  aged  to  Hagar's  eyes.  His  body  had  the 
same  height  and  swing,  the  same  fine  spareness;  his  voice 
kept  the  same  rich  inflections,  all  the  way  from  mellow  and 
golden  to  the  most  corroding  acid;  he  dominated,  just  as  she 
remembered  him  in  her  childhood.  Not  all  of  his  two  weeks 
in  Egypt  had  been  spent  by  Medway's  bedside;  he  had  been 
fairly  over  Alexandria,  and  to  Meks  and  Ramleh,  and  even 
afield  to  Abukir  and  Rosetta.  He  had  offered  to  take  her  with 
him  upon  these  later  excursions,  but  she  had  refused.  The 
brother  of  her  father's  wife  was  going  with  him,  and  she  cor 
rectly  thought  that  they  would  be  freer  without  her.  The 
Colonel  acquiesced.  "  I  dare  say  you  '11  have  chances  enough 
to  see  things,  Gipsy."  It  was  her  first  intimation  that  any 
one  had  in  mind  her  staying.  .  .  . 

Now  the  Colonel,  after  pacing  awhile,  spoke  reflectively, 
"At  this  rate  it  won't  be  long  before  he's  really  well  enough 
to  talk.  I'll  have  to  have  several  talks  with  him.  Did  you 
gather,  Gipsy,  that  Thomson  had  told  him  that  he  would 
remain  crippled?" 

"I  do  not  think  he  told  him  that,  grandfather." 

"That's  going  to  be  the  shock,"  said  the  Colonel.  "Well, 
he'll  have  to  be  told!  I  think  Thomson  —  or  the  doctor  — 


234  HAGAR 

had  better  do  it.  And  then  he'll  have  to  learn  about  that  will. 
Altogether,  it  may  delay  his  convalescence  a  little.  Of  course, 
I'll  stay  until  he's  practically  recovered  —  as  far  as  he  can 


recover." 


"Do  you  think  that .  .  .  perhaps  ...  he  might  like  to  go 
home  —  to  go  home  to  Gilead  Balm?" 

"Not,"  answered  the  Colonel,  "if  I  know  Medway,  and 
I  think  I  do!  To  come  back,  crippled,  after  all  these  prim 
rose  years  —  to  sleep  in  his  old  room,  and  Maria's  —  to  sit 
on  the  porch  and  listen  to  Bob  and  Serena  —  No ! " 

That  night  in  her  own  room  Hagar  placed  two  candles  on 
the  table,  took  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  pencil,  and  sitting 
down,  made  a  calculation.  The  night  was  warm  to  oppres 
sion;  through  the  windows  came  the  indefinite,  hot,  thick 
murmur  of  the  evening  city.  Hagar  sat  with  bare  arms  and 
throat  and  loosened  hair.  She  wrote  her  name,  Hagar  Ashen- 
dyne,  and  her  age,  and  then,  an  inch  below,  a  little  table,  — 

The  Prize  Story  $200.00 

(Clothes,  books,  Thomasine.   All  spent.) 

The  Story  in 's  Magazine  $50.00 

(Clothes,  books.   All  spent.) 
"  The  Lame  Duck  "  $100.00 

(7  have  most  of  it  yet) 

"The  Mortal"  $125.00 

Total  $475.00 

After  a  pause  the  pencil  moved  on.  "Many  stories  in  mind, 
one  partly  written.  The^monthly  says  I  can  write  and  will 
make  a  name."  It  paused,  then  moved  again.  "To  earn  a 
living.  To  live  where  life  is  simple  and  does  n't  cost  much. 
If  I  go  on,  and  I  will  go  on,  I  could  live  at  Gilead  Balm  on 


MEDWAY  235 

what  I  make,  and  help  keep  up  the  place.  If  ever  I  had  to 
live  by  myself,  I  could  get  two  or  three  rooms  in  a  city  and 
live  there.  Or  maybe  a  small  house,  and  have  Thomasine 
with  me.  In  another  year  or  two  years,  I  can  keep  myself. 
I  do  not  want  to  stay  here  when  grandfather  goes.  Where 
there  is  no  love  and  honour,  what  is  the  use?  It  is  n't  as 
though  he  needed  me  —  he  does  n't  • —  or  wanted  me  — " 

She  laid  the  pencil  down  and  leaned  back  in  the  deep  chair. 
Her  eyes  grew  less  troubled;  a  vague  relief  and  calm  came 
into  her  face,  and  she  smiled  fleetingly.  "If  he  does  n't  think 
he  needs  me  or  wants  me,  —  and  I  don't  believe  he'll  think 
so,  —  then  there  is  n't  anything  surer  than  that  I  won't  stay.'* 
She  rose  and  paced  the  room.  "I  should  n't  worry,  Hagarl** 

Some  days  after  this,  she  offered  one  afternoon  to  relieve 
the  nurse.  She  had  done  this  before  and  frequently.  Here 
tofore  the  service  had  consisted,  since  the  patient  almost 
always  slept  through  the  afternoon,  in  sitting  quietly  in  the 
darkened  chamber  and  dreaming  her  own  dreams  for  an  hour 
or  two,  when  the  grateful  nurse  came  back  refreshed.  To 
day  she  was  presently  aware  that  he  was  awake;  that  he  was 
lying  therewith  his  eyes  open,  regarding  the  slow  play  of  light 
and  shadow  upon  the  ceiling.  She  had  found  out,  on  those 
earlier  occasions,  that  he  did  not  discriminate  between  her 
and  the  usual  nurse;  when  he  roused  himself  to  demand  water 
he  had  looked  no  farther  than  the  glass  held  by  her  hand  to 
his  lips.  Now,  as  she  felt  at  once  as  with  a  faint  electric 
shock,  it  was  going  to  be  different.  He  spoke  presently.  His 
voice,  though  halting  and  much  weakened,  resembled  the 
Colonel's  golden,  energetic  drawl. 

"What  time  is  it?" 


236  HAGAR 

"Five  o'clock." 

"What  day  of  the  month?" 

She  told  him.  "Alexandria  in  April!"  he  said.  "What  im 
possible  things  happen!" 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  fell  silent,  lying  there  staring  at 
the  ceiling.  In  a  few  minutes  he  asked  for  water.  The  glass 
at  his  lips,  she  felt  that  he  looked  with  curiosity  first  at  the 
hand  which  held  it,  and  then  at  her  face.  "Water  tastes 
good,"  he  said,  "does  n't  it?" 

"Yes,  it  does."  She  put  down  the  glass  and  returned  to 
lier  seat. 

"You  are  n't,"  he  said,  "the  nurse  I've  had." 

"No;  she  will  be  back  presently." 

Tiiere  followed  another  pregnant  silence;  then :  "A  beauti 
ful  string  of  impossibilities.  I  know  the  Colonel 's  here  — 
been  here  a  long  time.  Now,  did  I  dream  it  or  did  Thomson 
tell  me  that  he'd  brought  my  daughter  with  him?" 

"Thomson  told  you." 

Medway  lay  quite  quiet  and  relaxed.  The  cut  over  the 
head  was  nearly  healed;  there  was  now  but  a  slight  fillet-like 
white  bandage  about  it.  Thomson  had  trimmed  mustache 
and  short  pointed  beard;  the  features  above  were  bloodless 
yet,  but  no  longer  sunken  and  ghastly;  the  eyes  were  gather 
ing  keenness  and  intelligence.  Ashendynes  and  Coltsworths 
were  alike  good-looking  people,  and  Medway  had  taken  his 
share.  He  knew  it,  prized  it,  and  bestowed  upon  it  a  proper 
care.  Hagar  wondered  —  wondered. 

He  spoke  again.  "Life's  a  variorum!  I  shouldn't  won 
der...  Hagar!" 

"Yes,  father?" 


MEDWAY  237 

"  Suppose  you  come  over  here,  nearer.  I  want  to  see  how 
you've  'done  growed  up." 

She  moved  her  chair  until  it  rested  full  in  a  slant  ray  of 
sunlight,  coming  through  the  lowered  blinds,  then  sat  within 
the  ray,  as  still  almost  as  if  she  had  been  sculptured  there. 

Five  minutes  passed.  "  Have  n  't  you  any  other  name  than 
Hagar?"  said  Medway.  "Are  they  always  going  to  call  you 
that?" 

"Grandfather  calls  me  Gipsy  —  except  when  he  does  n't 
like  what  I  do." 

"Does  that  happen  often?  Are  you  wilful?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Hagar.   "  I  am  like  my  mother." 

When  she  had  spoken,  she  repented  it  with  a  pang  of  fear. 
He  was  in  no  condition,  of  course,  to  have  waked  old,  disturb 
ing  thoughts. 

But  Medway  had  depth  on  depth  of  sang-froid.  "You 
look  like  her  and  you  don't  look  like  her,"  he  murmured, 
"You  may  be  like  her  within,  but  you  can't  be  all  like  her. 
Blessings  and  cursings  are  all  mixed  in  this  life.  You  must  be 
a  little  bit  like  me  —  Gipsy!" 

"It  is  time,"  said  Hagar,  "for  an  egg  beaten  up  in  wine." 

She  gave  it  to  him,  standing,  grave-eyed,  beside  the  bed. 
"I  do  not  think  you  should  talk.  Shut  your  eyes  and  go  to 
sleep." 

"Can  you  read  aloud?" 

"Yes,  but— " 

"Can  you  sing?" 

"Not  to  amount  to  anything.  But  I  can  sing  to  you  very 
low  until  you  go  to  sleep,  if  that's  what  you  mean  — "•• 

"All  right.   Sing!" 


238  HAGAR 

She  moved  from  the  shaft  of  light,  and  began  to  croon 
rather  than  to  sing,  softly  and  dreamily,  bits  of  old  songs  and 
ballads.  In  ten  minutes  he  was  asleep,  and  in  ten  more  the 
nurse  returned. 

The  next  afternoon  Thomson  brought  her  a  message.  "  Mr. 
Ashendyne  would  like  you  to  sit  with  him  awhile,  Miss." 

She  went,  and  took  her  chair  by  the  window,  the  nurse 
leaving  the  room.  Medway  lay  dozing,  his  eyes  half-closed. 
After  a  while  he  woke  fully  and  asked  who  was  there. 

"  It  is  Hagar,  father." 

"Sit  where  you  were  yesterday." 

She  obeyed,  taking  again  her  place  in  the  slant  light.  It 
made  a  gold  crown  for  her  dusky  hair,  slid  to  the  hollow  of 
her  firm  young  throat,  brought  forward  her  slender  shoulders, 
draped  in  white,  and  bathed  her  long  hands,  folded  in  her  lap. 

Medway  lay  and  looked  at  her,  coolly,  as  long  as  he  pleased. 
"You  are  not  at  all  what  is  called  beautiful.  We'll  dismiss 
that  from  mind.  But  the  people  who  give  us  our  terms  are 
mostly  idiots  anyhow!  Beauty  in  the  eye  of  the  beholder- — 
but  what  bats  are  the  beholders !  No,  you  have  n't  beauty, 
as  they  say,  but  there's  something  left, ...  I  like  the  way 
you  sit  there,  Gipsy." 

"I  am  glad  that  you  are  pleased,  father." 

"I  could  n't  deduce  you  from  your  letters." 

Her  eyes  met  his.   "  I  did  not  choose  that  you  should." 

Again  she  felt  a  quiver  of  pain  for  what  she  had  said.  She 
was  torn  between  a  veritable  anger  which  now  and  again 
rose  perilously  near  the  surface  and  a  profound  pity  for  his 
broken  body,  and  for  what  he  would  feel  when  he  knew.  Her 
dream  of  the  early  winter  haunted  her.  She  saw  him  leaving 


MEDWAY  239 

that  white  steamer,  coming  lightly  and  jauntily  down  from 
it  to  the  shore,  robust,  with  a  colour  in  his  cheeks  and  his 
white  hat  like  a  helmet.  She  heard  again  Roger  Michael 
speaking.  "We  met  him  at  Carcassonne,  and  afterwards  at 
Aigues-Mortes.  He  was  sketching  most  wonderfully."  She 
saw  him,  moving  lightly,  from  stone  to  stone  in  old  half- 
ruined  cities.  The  dandelion  day  and  the  blossoming  or 
chard  came  back  to  her;  she  felt  again  beneath  her  his  half- 
dancing  motion  as  he  carried  her  under  the  boughs  where  the 
bees  were  humming.  Her  pity,  her  comprehension,  put  the 
anger  down. 

Medway  was  watching  her  curiously.  "You  have  a  most 
expressive  face,"  he  said.  "I  do  not  remember  you  well  as  a 
child.  How  old  were  you  the  last  time  we  met?" 

"Five  or  six,  I  think.  The  clearest  thing  I  can  remember, 
father,  is  one  day  when  you  were  lying  under  the  cedcrs  and  I 
had  been  gathering  dandelions  and  came  to  look  at  a  book 
you  had.  You  played  with  me,  and  I  accidentally  burned  my 
finger  on  your  cigar.  Then  you  were  very  kind  and  lovely; 
you  took  me  to  grandmother  to  have  it  tied  up,  and  then  you 
carried  me  on  your  shoulder  through  the  orchard,  and  told 
me  'Jack  and  the  Beanstalk.'" 

"By  Jove!"  said  Medway.  "Why,  I  remember  that,  too! 
.  .  .  First  the  smell  of  the  cedar  and  then  the  apple  blos 
soms.  .  .  .  You  were  a  queer  little  elf  —  and  you  entered  into 
the  morals  of  'Jack  and  the  Beanstalk'  most  seriously.  .  .  . 
Good  lack!  Whoever  forgets  anything!  That  to  comeback 
as  soft  and  vivid ! .  .  .  Well,  I  thought  I  had  forgotten  you 
clean,  Gipsy,  but  it  seems  I  had  n't." 

"You  must  n't  talk  too  much.   Shall  I  sing  you  to  sleep?" 


240  HAGAR 

"Yes,  sing!" 

Just  before  he  dozed  off,  he  spoke  again,  drowsily.  "Have 
you  heard  them  say  how  many  days  it  will  be  before  I  am  on 
my  feet  again?" 

"No." 

"I  will  want  to  show  you  and  the  Colonel — "  But  she 
had  begun  to  croon  "Swanee  River,"  and  he  went  to  sleep 
with  his  sentence  unfinished. 

The  next  day  he  spoke  of  his  drowned  wife.  It  came  as  a 
casual  remark,  but  with  propriety.  "Anna  was  a  good  woman. 
There  could  hardly  have  been  a  more  amiable  one.  She  had 
experience  and  tact;  she  was  utterly  unexacting.  She  had  her 
interests  and  I  had  mine;  we  lived  and  let  live.  ...  I  cannot 
yet  understand  how  she  happened  to  have  been  the  one  — " 

"  She  sent  me  her  picture,"  said  Hagar.  "  I  thought  it  very 
handsome,  and  a  good  face,  too.  And  the  two  or  three  letters 
I  had  from  her  —  I  have  kept  them." 

"She  was  a  good  woman,"  repeated  Medway.  "You 
rarely  see  a  tolerant  woman  —  she  was  one.  Her  brother 
has  told  me  about  her  will.  It  is  true  that  I  expected,  per 
haps,  a  fuller  confidence.  But  it  was  her  money  —  she 
had  a  right  to  do  as  she  pleased.  I  knew  that  she  had  some 
unfortunate  idea  or  other  as  to  the  origin  of  her  wealth  — 
but  I  did  not  conceive  that  her  mind  made  so  much  of 
it.  ...  However,  I  refuse  to  be  troubled  on  that  score. 
Her  disposition  of  matters  leaves  me  comfortable  enough. 
I  am  not  worrying  over  it.  I  never  worry,  Gipsy!" 

After  lying  for  three  minutes  he  spoke  with  his  inimitable 
liquid  drawl.  "When  I  think  of  all  the  years  out  of  which 
I  have  squeezed  enjoyment  on  the  pettiest  income — going 


MEDWAY  241 

here  and  going  there  —  every  nook  of  Europe,  much  of  Asia 
and  Africa  —  just  managing  to  keep  Thomson  and  myself  — 
knowing  every  in  and  out,  every  rank  and  grade  and  caste, 
palace  and  hovel,  chateau  and  garret,  camp  and  atelier, 
knowing  pictures,  music,  scenery,  strange  people  and  strange 
adventures,  knowing  my  own  kind  and  welcome  among 
them  —  now  basking  like  a  lizard,  now  in  action  as  though  a 
tarantula  had  bit  me  —  everywhere,  desert  and  sea  and  city 

—  and  all  on  next  to  nothing!  —  making  drawings  when  I 
had  to  (I  did  that  one  year  in  southern  France;  Carcassonne, 
Aigues-Mortes,  Nimes,  and  so  forth),  but  usually  fortunate 
in  friends  ...  it  seems  that  I  might  be  able  to  manage  on  fifty 
thousand  a  year  .  .  .  resume  at  the  old  house." 

It  was  another  week  before  he  was  told.  He  was  growing 
impatient  and  suspicious.  .  .  .  The  doctor  did  it,  Thomson 
flunking  for  the  first  time  in  his  existence.  The  doctor,  having 
done  it,  came  out  of  the  room,  drew  a  long  breath,  and  ac 
cepted  coffee  from  Mahomet  with  rather  a  shaking  hand. 

"Well?"  demanded  the  Colonel.   "Well?" 

"He's  perfectly  game,"  said  the  doctor,  "but  I  should  say 
he's  hard  hit.  However,"  —  he  drank  the  coffee,  —  "there's 
one  thing  that  a  considerable  experience  with  human  nature 
has  taught  me,  and  that  is,  Colonel,  that  your  born  hedonist 

—  and  it's  no  disparagement  to  Mr.  Ashendyne  to  call  him 
that;  quite  the  reverse  —  your  born  hedonist  will  remain 
hedonist  still,  though  the  heavens  fall.   He'll  twist  back  to 
the  pleasant.   He's  going  through  pretty  bitter  waters  at 
the  moment,  but  he'll  get  life  somehow  on  the  pleasurable 
plane  again.  All  the  same,"  mused  the  doctor,  "he's  un 
doubtedly  suffering  at  present." 


242  HAGAR 

"I  won't  go  in,"  said  the  Colonel.  "Better  fight  such 
things  out  alone!" 

The  other  nodded.   "Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

But  a  little  later  Hagar  went  in.  She  waited  an  hour  or 
two  in  her  own  room,  sitting  before  a  window,  gazing  with 
unseeing  eyes.  The  heat  swam  and  dazzled  above  countless 
flat,  pale,  parapetted  roofs  of  countless  houses.  Palm  and 
pepper  and  acacia  and  eucalyptus  drooped  in  the  airless  day; 
there  sounded  a  drone  of  voices;  a  great  bird  sailed  slowly  on 
stretched  wings  far  overhead  in  a  sky  like  brass.  She  turned 
and  went  to  her  father's  room- 
Outside  she  met  Thomson.  "Are  you  going  in,  Miss?  I'm 
glad  of  that.  Mr.  Ashendyne  is  n't  one  of  these  people  whom 
their  own  company  suffices  — " 

Hagar  raised  sombre  eyes.  "I  thought  that  my  father  had 
always  been  sufficient  to  himself — " 

"Not  in  trouble,  Miss." 

He  knocked  at  the  door  for  her.  Medway's  voice  an 
swered,  strangely  jerky,  quick,  and  harsh.  "What  is  it? 
Come  in!" 

Thomson  opened  the  door.  "It's  Miss  Hagar,  sir,"  then 
closed  it  upon  her  and  glided  away  down  the  corridor. 

Medway  was  lying  well  up  upon  his  pillows,  staring  at  the 
light  upon  the  wall.  He  had  sent  away  the  nurse.  He  did  not 
speak,  and  Hagar,  moving  quietly,  went  here  and  there  in  the 
large  room,  that  was  as  large  as  an  audience  chamber.  At  the 
windows  she  drew  the  jalousies  yet  closer,  making  a  rich  twi 
light  in  the  room.  There  were  flowers  on  a  table,  and  she 
brought  fresh  water  and  filled  the  bowl  in  which  they  livecL 
There  were  books  in  a  small  case,  and,  kneeling  before  it,  she 


MEDWAY  243 

read  over  their  titles,  and  taking  one  from  the  shelf  went 
softly  through  it,  looking  at  the  pictures. 

At  last,  with  it  still  in  her  hand,  she  came  to  her  accus 
tomed  seat  near  the  bed.  "It's  a  bad  day  for  you,"  she  said 
simply.  "I  am  very  sorry." 

"Do  you  object  to  my  swearing?" 

"Not  especially,  if  it  helps  you." 

"It  won't—  I'll  put  it  off Oh— h  ..."  He  turned 

his  head  and  shoulders  as  best  he  could,  until  his  face  was 
buried  in  the  pillows.  The  bed  shook  with  his  heavy,  gasp 
ing  sobs.  .  .  . 

It  did  not  last.  Ashendynes  were  not  apt  long  to  indulge 
in  that  kind  of  thing.  Medway  pulled  a  good  oar  out  of  it. 
The  room  very  soon  became  perfectly  still  again.  When  the 
silence  was  broken,  he  asked  her  what  she  was  reading,  and 
then  if  she  had  seen  anything  of  the  city.  Presently  he  told 
her  to  sing.  He  thought  he  might  sleep ;  he  had  n't  slept 
much  last  night.  "I  must  have  had  a  presentiment  of  this 
damned  thing  —  Go  on  and  sing!"  She  crooned  "Dixie" 
and  "Swanee  River"  and  "Annie  Laurie,"  but  it  was  of  no 
use.  He  could  not  sleep.  "Of  all  things  to  come  to  me, 
this  — ! . .  .  Why,  I  should  like  to  be  out  in  the  desert  this 
minute,  with  a  caravan.  .  .  .  O  God!" 

She  brought  him  cool  water.  "I'm  sorry — I'm  sorry!" 
she  said. 

As  she  put  down  the  glass,  he  held  her  by  the  sleeve.  A 
twisted  smile,  half-wretched,  half  with  a  glint  of  cheer, 
crossed  his  face.  "Do  you  know,  Gipsy,  I  could  grow  right 
fond  of  you." 


CHAPTER  XXI 
AT  ROGER  MICHAEL'S 

ON  an  early  April  afternoon  in  the  year  1902  a  man  and 
woman  were  crossing,  with  much  leisureliness,  Trafalgar 
Square. 

"We  won't  get  run  over!   It  is  n't  like  Paris." 
"Are  n't  you  tired,  Molly?  Don't  you  want  a  hansom?" 
"Tired?  No!  What  could  make  me  tired  a  day  like  this? 
I  want  to  go  stroke  the  lions." 

They  gravely  went  and  did  so.   "Poor  old  British  Lion!  — 
Listen!" 

News  was  being  cried.  "Details  of  fight  at  Bushman's  Kopl " 
Christopher  Josslyn  left  the  lions,  ran  across  and  got  a 
paper,  then  returned.   "A  small  affair!"  he  said.   "How  in 
terminably  the  thing  drags  out!" 

"But  they'll  have  peace  directly  now." 
"Yes  —  but  it's  Poor  old  Lion,  just  the  same  — " 
They  moved  from  the  four  in  stone,  striking  across  to  Pall 
Mall.  "There  was  a  halcyon  time  in  England,  fifty  years  or 
so  ago,  when,  if  you'll  believe  what  men  wrote,  it  was  seri 
ously  held  that  no  civilized  man  would  ever  again  encroach 
upon  a  weaker  brother's  rights!  ^Eons  were  at  hand  of  uni 
versal  education,  stained  glass,  and  ascension  lilies.  At  any 
rate  aeons  of  brotherhood.  Under  the  kindly  control  of  the 
great  Elder  Brother  England.  And  they  had  some  reason  — 
it  looked  for  an  illusory  moment  that  way.  I  always  try  to 


AT   ROGER  MICHAEL'S  245 

remember  that  —  and  moments  like  that  in  every  land's 
history  —  at  moments  such  as  these.  Why  does  n't  that 
moment  carry  on  over?  There's  something  deeply,  funda 
mentally  wrong." 

He  looked  along  the  crowded  street.  Men  were  buying 
papers  —  that  seemed  their  chief  employment.  Delarey  — 
Kitchener  —  Report  of  fight  at  Hartz  River. 

"Not  far  from  a  billion  dollars  expended  on  this  war — and 
those  East  Side  streets  we  went  through  yesterday  —  Con 
centration  Camps — and  the  Coronation  —  this  reactionary 
Administration  with  its  Corn  Laws  and  Coercion  Laws  and 
wretched  Education  Bill,  and  so  on — and  the  Coronation 
talk  —  and  Piccadilly  last  night  after  nine  — " 

"Oh,"  said  Molly  sharply.  "That's  the  sting  that  I  feel! 
It's  women  and  children  who  are  suffering  in  those  Concen 
tration  Camps,  I  suppose  —  and  it's  women's  sons  who  are 
lying  on  the  battlefields  —  and  it's  women  just  as  well  as 
men  who  are  paying  the  taxes  —  and  it's  women,  too,  in 
those  horrible  slums,  wretched  and  hopeless — and  bad  legis 
lation  falls  on  women  just  as  hardly  as  on  men  —  but  the 
other!  There  we've  got  the  tragedy  mostly  to  ourselves  — 
and  there's  no  greater  tragedy  below  the  stars!"  She  dashed 
a  bright  drop  from  her  eyes.  "I'll  never  forget  that  girl, 
last  night,  on  the  Embankment  —  thin  and  painted  and 
that  hollow  laugh.  ...  I  wish  women  would  wake  up!" 

"  Women  and  men,"  said  the  other.  "They  're  waking,  but 
it's  slow,  it's  slow,  it's  slow." 

The  softened,  softened  English  sunlight  bathed  the  broad 
street,  the  buildings,  the  wheeled  traffic,  the  people  going  up 
and  down.  The  two  Americans,  here  at  last  at  the  latter  end 


246  HAGAR 

of  their  six  months  abroad,  delighted  in  the  tender  light, 
in  the  soft  afternoon  sky  with  a  few  sailing  clouds,  in  the 
street  sights  and  sounds,  in  the  English  speech.  They  strolled 
rather  than  walked;  even  at  times  they  dawdled  rather  than 
strolled.  They  developed  a  tendency  to  stand  before  shop- 
windows.  So  strong  and  handsome  a  pair  were  they  that 
they  attracted  some  attention.  Thirty-five  and  thirty-two, 
both  tall,  both  well-made,  lithe,  active,  both  aglow  with 
health;  she  a  magnificent  rosy  blonde,  he  blue-eyed,  but  with 
nut-brown  hair;  both  dressed  with  an  unconventional  simplic 
ity,  fitness,  and  comfort;  both  interested  as  children  and  happy 
in  each  other's  company  —  those  who  observed  them  did  not 
call  them  "Promise-Bearers";  and  yet,  in  a  way,  that  was 
what  they  were.  There  were  three  children  at  home  with  as 
splendid  a  grandmother.  A  University  had  sent  Christopher 
to  make  an  investigation,  and  the  children  had  said,  "You 
go,  too,  mother!  It'll  be  splendid.  You  need  a  rest!"  and 
Christopher  had  said,  "Molly,  you  need  another  honey 
moon." 

The  English  weather  was  uncommonly  good.  As  they 
came  to  Green  Park  a  barrel-organ  was  playing.  Spring  was 
full  at  hand;  you  read  it  everywhere. 

Two  men  passed,  talking.  "Yes,  to  confer  at  Klerksdorp, 
with  Steyn  and  Botha  and  De  Wet.  Peace  presently,  and 
none  too  soon!" 

"I  should  think  not.   I'm  done  with  wars." 

"Little  Annie  Rooney,"  played  the  barrel-organ. 

"There  is  more  than  one  way  for  societies  to  survive," 
said  Christopher,  "and  some  day  men  will  find  it  out.  You 
can  survive  by  being  a  better  duellist  and  for  a  longer  time 


AT   ROGER   MICHAEL'S  247 

than  the  other  fellow  —  and  you  can  survive  by  being  the 
better  toiler,  also  with  persistence  —  or  you  can  survive  by 
being  the  better  thinker,  in  an  endless,  ascending  scale.  Each 
plane  makes  the  lower  largely  unnecessary,  is,  indeed,  the 
lower  moved  up,  become  more  merciful  and  wiser.  Survive 

—  to  live  over  —  to  outlive.  The  true  survivor  —  would  n't 
you  like  to  see  him  —  see  her  —  see  us,  Molly?" 

"Yes,"  said  Molly  soberly.  "We  are  a  long  way  off." 
Christopher  assented.  "True  enough.  And,  thank  Heaven ! 
the  true  survivor  will  always  vanish  toward  the  truer  yet. 
But  I  don't  know  —  it  seems  to  me  —  the  twentieth  cen 
tury  might  catch  a  faint  far  glimpse  of  our  lineaments!  I  am 
madly,  wildly,  rashly  optimistic  for  the  twentieth  century 

—  even  when  I  remember  how  optimistic  they  were  fifty 
years  ago!  Who  could  help  being  optimistic  on  such  an  after 
noon?   Look  at  the  gold  on  the  green!" 

The  barrel-organ  played  an  old,  gay  dance. 

"Do  you  suppose,"  said  Molly,  "  that,  in'Merry  England, 
the  milkmaids  and  shepherdesses  danced  about  a  maypole 
at  thirty-two?  For  that's  just  exactly  what  I  should  like  to 
do  this  minute !  How  absurd  to  be  able  to  climb  the  Matter- 
horn,  and  then  not  to  be  let  go  out  there  and  dance  on  that 
smooth  bit  of  green!" 

"You  might  try  it.  Only  I  would  n't  answer  for  the  con 
duct  of  the  policeman  by  the  tree.  And  if  you're  arrested, 
we  can't  dine  to-night  with  Roger  Michael." 

Roger  Michael  lived  in  a  small,  red,  Georgian  house  in 
Chelsea.  Her  grandparents  had  lived  here,  and  her  parents, 
and  she  had  been  born  here,  nearer  fifty  than  forty  years  ago. 
It  had  descended  to  her,  and  she  lived  here  still.  She  had  an 


248  HAGAR 

old  housekeeper  and  a  beautiful  cat,  and  two  orphan  chil 
dren  who  were  almost  the  happiest  children  in  that  part  of 
the  world.  She  always  kept  children  in  the  house.  There 
were  a  couple  of  others  whom  she  had  raised  and  who  were 
out  in  the  world,  doing  well,  and  when  the  two  now  with  her 
were  no  longer  children  she  would  find  another  two.  She  did 
not  believe  in  orphan  asylums.  She  herself  had  never  married. 

She  remembered  George  Eliot,  and  she  had  known  the 
Rossettis,  and  more  slightly  the  Carlyles.  Now  in  her  small, 
distinguished  house,  with  its  atmosphere  of  plain  living  and 
high  thinking,  fragrant  and  sunny  with  kindliness  and  good 
will,  she  set  her  table  often  for  her  friends  and  drew  them 
together  in  her  simple,  old-fashioned,  book-overflowing 
drawing-room.  Her  friends  were  scholars,  writing  and  think 
ing  people,  and  simply  good  people,  and  any  one  who  was  in 
trouble  and  came  to  her,  and  many  reformers.  She  was  her 
self  of  old,  reforming  stock,  and  she  served  humanity  in  all 
those  ways.  She  had  met  and  liked  the  Josslyns  when  she 
was  in  America  years  before,  and  when  they  wrote  and  told 
her  they  were  in  London  she  promptly  named  this  evening 
for  them  to  come  to  Chelsea. 

They  found  besides  Roger  Michael  a  scientific  man  of  name 
asked  to  meet  Christopher,  a  writer  of  plays,  a  writer  of  es 
says,  a  noted  Fabian,  and  as  noted  a  woman  reformer.  The 
seventh  guest  was  a  little  late.  When  she  came,  it  was  Hagar 
Ashendyne. 

"What  an  unexpected  pleasure!"  said  the  Josslyns,  and 
meant  every  word  of  it.  "How  long  since  that  summer  at 
the  New  Springs?  Almost  nine  years!  And  you've  grown  a 
great,  famous  woman  — " 


AT   ROGER   MICHAEL'S  249 

"Not  so  very  great,  and  not  so  very  famous,"  said  Hagar 
Ashendyne.  "  But  I  'm  fortunate  enough — to-night !  You  're 
a  wind  from  home  —  you  mountain-climbing,  divine  couple ! 
The  Bear's  Den!  Do  you  remember  the  day  we  climbed 
there?" 

"Yes!"  said  Molly;  "and  Judge  Black  waiting  at  the  foot. 
Oh,  I  am  glad  to  see  you!  We  did  not  dream  you  were  in 
London." 

"We  —  my  father  and  I  —  have  been  here  only  a  little 
while.  All  winter  we  were  in  Algeria.  Then,  suddenly,  he 
wanted  to  see  the  Leonardos  in  the  National." 

Her  voice,  which  was  very  rich  and  soft,  made  musical 
notes  of  her  words.  She  was  subtly,  indescribably,  trans 
figured  and  magnified.  She  looked  a  great  woman.  While 
she  turned  to  greet  others  in  the  room,  one  or  two  of  whom 
seemed  acquaintances  of  more  or  less  old  standing,  Molly 
and  Christopher  were  alike  engaged  in  drawing  rapidly  into 
mind  what  they  knew  of  this  countrywoman.  They  knew 
what  the  world  knew  —  that  she  was  a  writer  of  short 
stories  whose  work  would  probably  live;  that  her  work  was 
fabulously  in  demand;  that  it  had  a  metaphysical  value  as 
well  as  a  clutching  interest.  They  knew  that  she  was  a 
world-wanderer,  sailing  here  and  there  over  the  globe  with 
a  father  whose  insatiable  zest  for  life  crutches  and  wheel 
chair  could  not  put  under.  It  was  their  impression  that  she 
had  not  been  in  America  more  than  once  or  twice  in  a  num 
ber  of  years.  They  read  everything  she  published;  they 
knew  what  could  be  known  that  way.  They  had  that  one 
summer's  impression  and  memory.  She  was  there  still;  she 
was  that  Hagar  Ashendyne  also,  but  evolved,  enriched.  .  .  . 


2SO  HAGAR 

Roger  Michael  never  had  large  dinner-parties,  and  the 
talk  was  oftenest  general.  The  fare  that  she  spread  was  very 
simple;  it  was  enough  and  good;  it  gained  that  recognition, 
and  then  the  attention  went  elsewhere.  The  eight  at  the 
round  table  were,  through  a  long  range,  harmoniously 
minded;  half,  at  least,  were  old  friends  and  comrades,  and 
the  other  half  came  easily  to  a  meeting-place.  Thought,  be 
come  articulate  with  less  difficulty  than  usual,  wove  with 
ductileness  across  and  across  the  table.  There  sounded  a  fair 
deal  of  laughter.  They  were  all  workers  here,  and,  neces 
sarily,  toward  many  issues,  serious-minded  enough.  But 
they  could  talk  shop,  and  one  another's  shop,  and  shop  of  the 
world  at  large,  with  humour  and  quick  appreciation  of  the 
merrier  aspects  of  the  workroom.  At  first,  naturally,  in  a 
time  of  public  excitement,  they  talked  the  war  in  Africa,  and 
the  sick  longing  the  country  now  felt  for  peace,  and  the  gen 
eral  public  foreboding,  undefined  but  very  real,  that  had 
taken  the  place  of  the  old,  too-mellow  complacency;  but 
then,  as  naturally  in  this  company,  the  talk  went  to  under 
lying,  slow,  hesitant  movements,  evolutionary  forces  just 
"a-borning";  roads  that  people  such  as  these  were  blazing, 
and  athwart  which  each  reactionary  swing  of  the  pendulum 
brought  landslides  and  floods  enough,  mountains  of  obstruc 
tion,  gulfs  of  not-yet-ness.  But  the  roadmakers,  the  pioneers, 
had  the  pioneer  temper;  they  were  spinning  ropes,  shoulder 
ing  picks,  stating  to  themselves  and  one  another  that  gulfs 
had  been  crossed  before  and  mountains  removed,  and  that, 
on  the  whole,  it  was  healthful  exercise.  They  were  incur 
ably  hopeful,  though  at  quite  long  range,  as  reformers  have 
to  be. 


AT   ROGER  MICHAEL'S  251 

The  Fabian  told  a  mirth-provoking  anecdote  of  a  Tory 
candidate.  The  scientific  man,  who  possessed  an  imagina 
tion  and  was  a  member  of  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research, 
gave  a  brief  account  of  Thomson's  new  Theory  of  Corpuscles, 
and  hazarded  the  prediction  that  the  next  quarter-century 
would  see  remarkable  things.  We  '11  know  more  about  radia 
tion  —  gravity  —  the  infinitely  little  and  the  infinitely  big. 
And  then  —  my  hobby.  There's  a  curious  increase  of  in 
terest  in  the  question  of  a  Fourth  Dimension.  It's  a  strange 
age,  and  it's  going  to  be  stranger  still  —  or  merely  beautifully 
simple  and  homecoming,  I  don't  know  which.  Science  and 
mysticism  are  fairly  within  hailing  distance  of  each  other." 
The  talk  went  to  Christopher's  investigation,  and  then  to 
mountain-climbing,  and  Cecil  Rhodes's  Will,  and  Marconi's 
astonishing  feat  of  receiving  in  Newfoundland  wireless  sig 
nals  from  a  station  on  the  English  coast,  and  M.  Santos- 
Dumont's  flight  in  a  veritable  airship.  The  writer  of  essays, 
who  was  a  woman  and  an  earnest  and  loving  one,  had  re 
cently  published  a  paper  upon  a  term  that  had  hardly  as  yet 
come  into  general  use  —  Eugenics;  an  article  as  earnest  and 
loving  as  herself.  Roger  Michael  had  liked  it  greatly,  and 
so  had  others  at  the  table.  Now  they  made  the  writer  go 
over  a  point  or  two,  which  she  did  quietly,  elaborating  what 
she  had  first  said. 

Only  the  writer  of  plays  —  his  last  one  being  at  the  mo 
ment  in  the  hands  of  the  censor  —  chose  to  be  strangely, 
deeply,  desperately  pessimistic.  "I  am  going,"  he  said,  "to 
quote  Huxley  —  not  that  I  could  n't  say  it  as  well  myself. 
Says  Huxley,  CI  know  of  no  study  which  is  so  unutterably 
saddening  as  that  of  the  evolution  of  humanity.  .  .  .  Out  of 


HAGAR 

the  darkness  of  prehistoric  ages  man  emerges  with  the  mark 
of  his  lowly  origin  strong  upon  him.  He  is  a  brute,  more  in 
telligent  than  other  brutes;  a  blind  prey  to  impulses  which, 
as  often  as  not,  lead  him  to  destruction;  a  victim  to  endless 
illusions  which  make  his  mental  existence  a  terror  and  a  bur 
then  and  fill  his  physical  life  with  barren  toil  and  battle.  He 
attains  a  certain  degree  of  comfort  and  develops  a  more  or 
less  workable  theory  of  life  . .  .  and  then  for  thousands  of  years 
struggles  with  varying  fortunes,  attended  by  infinite  wicked 
ness,  bloodshed,  and  misery,  to  maintain  himself  at  that  point 
against  the  greed  and  ambition  of  his  fellow-men.  He  makes 
a  point  of  killing  and  otherwise  persecuting  all  those  who 
first  try  to  get  him  to  move  on;  and  when  he  has  moved  a 
step  farther,  foolishly  confers  post-mortem  deification  on  his 
victims.  He  exactly  repeats  the  process  with  all  who  want 
him  to  move  a  step  yet  farther.'  —  That,"  said  the  writer  of 
plays,  "is  what  happens  to  brains,  aspiration,  and  altruism 
in  combination  —  rack  and  thumbscrews  and  auto-da-fes, 
and  maybe  in  five  hundred  years  or  a  thousand  a  picture 
skied  by  the  Royal  Academy  —  'Giordano  Bruno  going  to 
the  Stake,'  ' Galileo  Recanting,'  'Joan  of  Arc  before  her 
Judges.'  My  own  theory  of  the  world  is  that  it  is  standing 
on  its  head.  Naturally  it  resents  the  presence  of  people 
whose  heads  are  in  the  clouds.  Naturally  it  finds  them  rather 
ridiculous  and  contrary  to  all  the  proprieties,  and  violently 
to  be  pulled  down.  Moral:  keep  your  brains  close  to  safety 
and  the  creeping  herb." 

"  I  think  that  you  worry,"  said  the  Fabian, "  much  too  much 
about  that  play.  I  don't  believe  there's  the  slightest  pros 
pect  that  he'll  think  it  fit  to  be  produced." 


AT   ROGER   MICHAEL'S  253 

The  woman  reformer  was  talking  with  Molly.  "Yes;  it's  a 
long  struggle.  We've  been  at  it  since  the  'fifties  —  just  as 
you  have  been  in  America.  A  long,  long  time.  The  Move 
ment  in  both  countries  is  a  grey-haired  woman  of  almost  sixty 
years.  We  Ve  needed  what  they  say  we  have  —  patience. 
Sometimes  I  think  we've  been  too  patient.  You  younger 
women  have  got  to  come  in  and  take  hold  and  give  what  per 
haps  the  older  type  could  n't  give  —  organization  and  wider 
knowledge  and  modern  courage.  We've  given  the  old-time 
courage  all  right,  and  you'll  have  to  have  the  patience  and 
staying  qualities,  too;  —  but  there's  needed  now  a  higher 
heart  and  a  freer  step  than  we  could  give  in  that  world  that 
we're  coming  out  of." 

"I  think  that  I've  always  thought  it  right,"  said  Molly, 
"but  I've  never  really  come  out  and  said  so,  or  become  iden 
tified  in  any  way.  —  Of  course,  it  is  n't  thinking  so  very  posi 
tively  if  you  have  n't  done  that  — " 

"It  is  like  that  with  almost  every  one.  Diffused  thought 
—  and  then,  suddenly  one  day,  something  happens  or  an 
other  mind  touches  yours,  and  out  of  the  mist  there  gathers 
form,  determination,  action.  You're  all  right,  my  dear! 
Only,  I  hope  when  you  go  home  you  will  speak  out,  join  some 
organization  —  That  is  the  simple,  right  thing  that  every 
one  can  do.  Concerted  effort  is  the  effort  that  tells  to 
day." 

"Are  you  speaking,"  asked  Hagar  Ashendyne,  "of  the 
Suffrage  Movement?" 

They  were  back  in  the  drawing-room,  all  gathered  more  or 
less  closely  around  a  light  fire  upon  the  hearth,  kindled  for 
the  comfort  of  Americans  who  always  found  England  "so 


254  HAGAR 

cold."  It  softened  and  brightened  all  the  room,  quaint  and 
old-fashioned,  where,  for  a  hundred  years,  distinguished 
quiet  people  had  come  and  gone. 

"'  Yes,"  said^the  older  women.    "Are  you  interested?" 

"Yes,  of  course—  " 

She  had  not  spoken  much  at  dinner,  but  had  sat,  a  pearl  of 
listeners,  deep,  soft  eyes  upon  each  discourser  in  turn.  There 
was  in  the  minds  of  all  an  interest  and  curiosity  regarding 
her.  Her  work  was  very  good.  She  had  personality  to  an 
extraordinary  degree. 

Now  she  spoke  in  a  voice  that  had  a  little  of  the  Ashendyne 
golden  drawl.  "I  have  been  —  in  the  last  eight  years  —  oh, 
all  over!  Europe,  yes;  but  more  especially,  it  seems  to  me, 
looking  back,  the  Orient.  Egypt,  all  North  Africa,  Turkey 
and  Persia,  Japan  and  India.  Yes,  and  Europe,  too;  Greece 
and  Italy  and  Spain,  the  mid-Continent  and  the  North. 
Around  the  world  —  a  little  of  Spanish  America,  a  little  of 
the  Islands.  Sometimes  long  in  one  place,  sometimes  only  a 
few  days.  .  .  .  Everywhere  it  was  always  the  same.  .  .  .  The 
Social  Organism  with  a  shrivelled  side." 

The  writer  of  plays  was  in  a  mood  to  take  issue  with  his 
every  deepest  conviction;  also  to  say  banal  things.  "But 
are  n't  American  women  the  freest  in  the  world?" 

Hagar  Ashendyne  did  not  answer.  She  sat  in  a  deep  arm 
chair,  her  elbow  upon  the  arm,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  her  eyes 
dreaming  upon  the  fire.  .  .  . 

But  Christopher  entered  the  lists.  "' Freest'  —  'freest'! 
Yes,  perhaps  they  are.  The  Italian  woman  is  freer  than 
the  Oriental  woman,  and  the  .German  woman  is  freer  than 
the  Italian,  and  the  English  woman  is  freer  than  the 


AT  ROGER  MICHAEL'S  255 

German,  and  the  American  is  freer  than  the  English!  But 
what  have  they  to  do  with  'freer'  and  *  freest'?  It  is  a 
question  of  being  free!" 

"Free  politically?" 

"Free  in  all  human  ways,  politically  being  one.  I  do  not 
see  how  a  man  can  endure  to  say  to  a  woman,  'You  are  less 
free  than  I  am,  but  be  satisfied!  you  are  so  much  freer  than 
that  wretch  over  there!'" 

Hagar  rose.  Her  eyes  chanced  to  meet  those  of  the  man 
who  had  talked  physics  and  mysticism.  "We  shan't,"  she 
said,  "get  into  the  Fourth  Dimension  while  we  have  a 
shrivelled  side.  We  can't  limp  into  that,  you  know."  She 
crossed  the  room  and  stood  before  a  portrait  hung  above 
a  sofa.  "Roger  Michael,  come  tell  me  about  this  Quaker 
lady!" 

She  left  before  ten,  pleading  an  early  rising  for  work  that 
must  be  done.  And  Molly  and  Christopher  would  come  to 
see  her?  She  might  be  a  month  in  London. 

Christopher  and  the  Fabian  saw  her  into  her  cab,  and  she 
gave  each  her  hand  and  was  driven  away.  "That,"  said  the 
Fabian,  as  they  turned  back  to  the  house,  "is  a  woman  one 
could  die  for." 

It  was  a  long  way  to  the  hotel  where  the  Ashendynes  were 
staying.  A  mild,  dark,  blurred  night;  street  lights,  houses 
with  lights  and  darkened  houses,  I  forms  on  the  pavement 
that  moved  briskly,  forms  that  idled,  forms  that  went  with 
stealthiness;  passing  vehicles,  the  horses'  hoofs,  the  roll  of 
the  wheels,  the  onward,  unfolding  ribbon  of  the  night.  The 
air  came  in  at  the  lowered  window,  soft  and  cool,  with  a 
hint  now  of  rain.  Hagar  was  dreaming  of  Gilead  Balm.  Up 


256  HAGAR 

over  the  threshold  had  peered  a  childhood  evening,  and  she 
and  Thomasine  and  Maggie  and  Corker  and  Mary  Maga 
zine  played  ring-around-a-rosy,  over  the  dewy  grass  until 
the  pink  in  the  west  was  ashes  of  roses  and  the  fireflies 
were  out. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HAGAR    IN    LONDON 

"I  HAVE  been  re-reading  Humboldt,"  said  Medway  Ashen- 
dyne.  "What  do  you  say,  Gipsy,  to  risking  a  South  Ameri 
can  Revolution?  Venezuela  —  Colombia  —  Sail  from  New 
York  in  September  —  and  if  you  wanted  ten  days  at  Gilead 
Balm—" 

Their  drawing-room  looked  pleasantly  out  over  gardens; 
indeed,  so  closely  came  the  trees,  there  was  a  green  and  shim 
mering  light  in  the  room.  It  was  May,  and  the  sounds  of  the 
London  streets  floated  pleasantly  in  at  the  open  windows 
with  the  pleasant  morning  breeze.  The  waiter  had  taken 
away  Medway's  breakfast  paraphernalia.  Hagar  had  break 
fasted  much  earlier.  Thomson  stood  at  the  back  of  the  room 
arranging  upon  a  small  table,  which  presently  would  be 
moved  within  reach  of  Medway's  hand,  smoking  apparatus, 
papers,  magazines,  and  what  not.  That  eight-years-past  pro 
longed  sojourn  and  convalescence  in  Egypt  had  produced  a 
liking  for  Mahomet,  and  Medway  had  annexed  him  as  he 
annexed  all  possible  things  that  he  liked  and  that  could 
serve  him.  Mahomet,  speaking  English  now,  but  still  in  the 
costume  of  the  East,  had  just  brought  in  a  pannier  of  flowers. 
They  were  all  over  the  room,  in  tall  vases.  "Too  many,"  said 
Hagar's  eyes;  but  Medway  who,  when  he  was  in  search  of  the 
rarefied  pleasure  of  adventure  and  novelty  in  strange  and 
barbarous  places,  could  be  as  ascetic  as  a  red  Indian  on  the 


258  HAGAR 

warpath,  loved,  when  he  rocked  in  the  trough  of  the  waves, 
to  rock  in  a  bower. 

"Cartagena  would  be  our  port.  There's  a  railroad,  I  be 
lieve,  to  Calamar.  Then  up  the  Magdalena  by  some  kind 
of  a  steamboat  to  Giradot.  Then  get  to  Bogota  as  best  we 
might.  There's  an  interesting  life  there,  eight  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea,  with  schools  and  letters,  and  governments  in 
and  governments  out,  and  cool  mountain  water  running 
downwards  through  the  city,  and  the  houses  built  low  because 
of  the  earthquakes.  Let  us  go  up  the  Magdalena  and  across 
to  Bogota,  Gipsy!" 

He  sat  in  the  wheel-chair  he  had  himself  designed,  a  won 
derfully  light  and  graceful  affair,  —  considering,  —  with 
wonderful  places  alongside  and  beneath  for  wonderful  things. 
His  crutches  were  there,  slung  alongside,  ready  to  his  hand, 
and  wicker  detachable  receptacles  for  writing-things  and 
sketching-block  and  pencils  and  the  book  he  was  reading 
and  so  forth.  Where  he  travelled  now,  the  wheel-chair  must 
travel.  He  was  good  with  crutches  for  a  hundred  paces  or 
two;  then  he  must  sit  down  and  gather  force  for  the  next 
hundred.  He  suffered  at  times  —  not  at  all  constantly  —  a 
good  deal  of  pain.  But  with  all  of  this  understood,  he  yet 
looked  a  vigorous  person,  —  fresh,  hale,  well-favoured,  with 
not  a  grey  hair,  —  a  young  man  still. 

"Bogota,"  he  said,  "An  archiepiscopal  see —  universi 
ties,  libraries,  and  a  botanic  garden.  Shut-in  and  in-growing 
meridional  culture,  tempered  by  revolutions.  By  all  means 
let  us  go  to  Bogota,  Gipsy!" 

Hagar  smiled,  sat  without  speaking,  waiting,  her  eyes 
upon  Thomson  putting  the  last  touches  to  the  table,  and 


HAGAR   IN   LONDON  259 

Mahomet  thrusting  long-stemmed  irises  into  the  vases,  the 
faces  of  both  discreetly  masking  whatever  interest  they 
might  feel  in  the  proposed  itinerary. 

When,  after  another  minute  or  two,  they  were  gone  from 
the  room,  "Were  you  waiting  for  them  to  go?  Why,  who 
keeps  anything  from  Thomson?  He  knows  my  innermost  soul. 
I  told  him  this  morning  I  was  thinking  of  South  America." 

Hagar  rose,  and  with  her  hands  behind  her  head,  began 
slowly  to  pace  the  large  room.  "Bogota  qua  Bogota  is  all 
right.  You've  the  surest  instinct,  of  course,  when  it  comes 
to  matching  your  mood  with  your  place.  You're  a  mar 
vel  there,  as  you  are  in  so  many  ways,  father!  And  Thomson 
and  Mahomet  would  like  it,  too,  I  think." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  won't  like  it?" 

"No.  I  should  like  it  very  much.  But  I  am  not  going, 
father." 

Medway  made  an  impatient  movement,  "We  have  had 
this  before  — " 

"Yes,  but  not  so  determinedly.  .  .  .  Why  not  agree  that 
the  battle  is  over?  It  is  over." 

"And  you  rest  the  conqueror?" 

"In  this  — yes." 

"I  could  see,"  said  Medway,  "some  point  in  it  if  the 
existence  you  lead  with  me  made  the  fulfilment  of  your 
undoubted  talent — your  genius,  perhaps  —  impossible.  But 
you  write  wherever  we  go.  You  work  steadily." 

"Yes,"  said  Hagar,  "but  the  work  by  which  you  live  is 
not  all  of  life." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  touched  life  at  a  good  many 
points  in  these  eight  years." 


260  HAGAR 

"Being  with  you,"  said  Hagar,  "has  been  a  liberal  educa 
tion."  She  laughed  with  soft,  deliberate  merriment,  but  she 
meant  what  she  said.  From  a  slender  green  vase  she  took  an 
iris,  and  coming  to  the  wheel-chair  knelt  down  and  drew  the 
long  stalk  through  the  appropriate  buttonhole.  "You  must 
have  as  large  a  bouquet  as  that!"  she  said.  "Yes,  a  university 
and  a  training-ship!  I  can  never  be  sufficiently  grateful!" 

They  both  laughed.  "Well,  you've  paid  your  way!"  he 
said;  "literally  and  metaphorically.  I  suppose  two  grati 
tudes  cancel  each  other — " 

"Leaving  an  understanding  friendship."  She  grew  graver. 
"A  good  deal  of  love,  too.  I  want  you  to  realize  that."  She 
laughed  again.  "I  do  not  always  approve  you,  you  know, 
but,  thank  God!  I  can  love  without  always  approving!" 

Medway  nodded.    "I  like  a  tolerant  woman." 

She  rose  and  stood,  regarding  him  with  a  twisted  smile, 
affectionate  and  pitying.  "I  think  that  you  are  a  fearfully 
selfish  man  —  to  quote  Stevenson,  quoted  by  Henley,  'an 
unconscious,  easy,  selfish  person.'  And  I  think  that,  of  your 
own  brand,  you  have  grit  and  pluck  and  stamina  for  twenty 
men.  There's  no  malice  or  envy  in  you,  and  you're  intellect 
ually  honest,  and  you  can  be  the  best  company  in  the  world. 
I  am  very  fond  of  you." 

"Are  n't  you  the  selfish  person  not  to  be  willing  to  go  to 
Bogota?" 

"Perhaps — perhaps  —  "  said  Hagar  Ashendyne,  "but  I 
am  not  willing." 

"What  is  it  that  you  do  want?" 

"That  is  the  first  time  you  have  asked  me  that.  .  .  .Wan 
dering  is  good,  but  it  is  not  good  for  all  of  life.  I  want  to 


HAGAR   IN   LONDON  261 

return  to  my  own  country  and  to  live  there.  I  want  to  grow 
in  my  native  forest  and  serve  in  my  own  place." 

"To  live  at  Gilead  Balm  with  Bob  and  Serena?" 

"No;  I  do  not  mean  that  precisely."  Hagar  pushed  back 
her  heavy  hair.  "  I  have  n't  thought  it  out  perfectly.  But  it 
has  grown  to  be  wrong  to  me,  personally,  to  wander,  wander 
forever  like  this  —  irresponsible,  brushing  life  with  moth 
wings.  ...  If  I  saw  any  end  to  it ...  but  I  do  not — " 

"And  you  wish  to  cut  the  painter?  This  comes,"  said 
Medway,  "of  the  damned  modern  independence  of  women. 
If  you  could  n't  write  —  could  n't  earn  —  you'd  trot  along 
quietly  enough!  The  pivotal  mistake  was  letting  women 
learn  the  alphabet." 

"I  could  always  have  taken  a  position  as  housemaid," 
said  Hagar  serenely.  "You  can't  make  me  angry,  and  so  get 
the  best  of  me.  And  you  like  me  better,  knowing  the  alpha 
bet,  and  there's  no  use  in  your  denying  it.  ...  If  only  you 
would  conceive  that  it  were  possible  for  you  to  return  to 
America,  to  take  a  house,  to  live  there.  And  still  you  could 
travel  —  sometimes  with  me,  sometimes  without  me  — 
travel  often  if  you  pleased  and  far  and  wide.  .  .  .  Would  it 
be  so  distasteful?" 

"Profoundly  so,"  said  Medway.  "It  is  idle  to  talk  of  it.  I 
should  be  bored  to  extinction.  —  What  is  your  alternative?" 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  spend  three  months  out  of  every  year 
with  you." 

"Is  that  your  last  word?" 

"Yes." 

"Suppose  you  do  not  begin  the  arrangement  until  next 
year?  Then  we  can  still  go  to  Bogota." 


262  HAGAR 

"Are  you  so  wild  to  go  to  Bogota?" 

"All  life,"  said  Medway,  "is  based  upon  compromise." 

Hagar,  pacing  to  and  fro,  in  her  soft  dull-green  cotton  with 
its  fine  deep  collar  of  Valenciennes,  stopped  now  before  the 
purple  irises  and  now  before  the  white.  "Had  I  not  appeared 
by  your  bedside  in  Alexandria,  eight  years  ago,  had  I  not 
been  at  hand  during  that  convalescence  for  you  to  grow  a 
little  fond  of,  you  would  have,  all  these  years,  taken  Thom 
son  and  Mahomet  and  gone  to  every  place  where  we  have* 
gone,  just  the  same,  —  just  the  same,  —  and  with,  I  hardly 
doubt,  just  as  full  enjoyment.  If  you  had  not  liked  me,  you 
would,  with  the  entirest  equanimity,  have  bidden  me  good 
bye  and  seen  me  return  with  grandfather  to  Gilead  Balm, 
and  you  would  have  travelled  on,  finding  and  making  friends, 
acquaintances,  and  servants  as  you  do  to  so  remarkable  a 
degree,  missing  not  one  station  or  event.  If  I  died  to-day, 
you  would  do  every  proper  thing  —  and  in  the  autumn  pro 
ceed  to  Bogota." 

"Granting  all  that,"  said  Medway,  "it  remains  that  I  find 
and  have  found  in  the  past  a  pleasure  in  your  company.  —  I 
am  going  to  remind  you  again,  Gipsy,  that  all  life  is  com 
promise." 

Hagar,  at  the  window,  in  the  green  and  shimmering  light 
like  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  leaned  her  forehead  against  the 
sash  and  looked  across  into  the  leafy  gardens.  Children 
were  there,  playing  and  calling.  A  young  girl  passed,  carry 
ing  smart  bandboxes ;  then  an  old  woman,  stooping,  using  a 
cane,  with  her  a  great  dog  and  a  young  woman  in  the  dress  of 
a  nurse.  The  soft  rumble  and  crying  of  the  city  droned  in  to 
gether  with  a  bee  that  made  for  the  nearest  flower.  Hagar 


HAGAR  IN   LONDON  263 

turned.  "  I  will  go  with  you  for  another  year,  father,  but  after 
that,  I  will  go  home." 

"No  end  of  things,"  said  Medway,  "can  happen  in  a  year. 
I  never  cross  a  bridge  that's  three  hundred  and  sixty-five 
days  away.  —  I  'd  advise  you,  if  you  have  n't  already  done  so, 
to  read  Humboldt." 

He  had  a  luncheon  engagement,  and  at  twelve  vanished, 
Thomson  and  Mahomet  in  attendance.  This  drawing-room, 
his  large  chamber  and  bath,  an  adjoining  room  with  its  own 
entrance  for  Thomson,  quarters  somewhere  for  Mahomet, 
were  his;  he  paid  for  them.  Hagar  had  two  rooms,  her  bed 
room,  and  a  much  smaller  drawing-room.  They  were  hers; 
she  paid  for  them.  After  the  first  two  years  she  had  assumed 
utterly  her  own  support.  Medway  had  shrugged.  "As  you 
choose  — " 

Now,  in  her  own  rooms,  she  wrote  through  the  early  after 
noon,  then,  rising,  weighted  the  sheets  of  manuscript  with  a 
jade  Buddha,  put  on  a  street  dress,  and  went  out  into  the 
divine,  mild  May  weather.  She  knew  people  in  London;  she 
had  acquaintances,  engagements;  but  to-day  was  free.  She 
walked  a  long  way,  the  air  was  so  sweet,  and  at  last  she 
found  herself  before  Westminster  Abbey.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation  she  went  in.  The  great,  crowded  place  was  empty, 
almost,  of  the  living;  a  few  tourist  figures  flitted  vaguely.  She 
moved  slowly,  over  the  dust  of  the  dead,  between  the  dull, 
encumbering  marbles,  until  she  reached  a  corner  that  she 
liked.  Sitting  here,  her  head  a  little  thrown  back  against  the 
stone,  her  soul  opened  the  gates  of  Quiet.  Rose  and  purple 
light  sifted  down  from  the  great  windows;  all  about  was  the 
dim  thought  of  dead  kings  and  queens,  soldiers,  poets,  men  of 


264  HAGAR 

the  state.  In  the  organ  loft  some  one  touched  the  organ  keys. 
A  few  chords  were  sounded,  then  the  vibration  ceased. 

Hagar  sat  very  still,  her  eyes  closed.  Her  soul  was  search 
ing,  searching,  not  tumultuously,  but  quietly,  quietly.  It 
touched  the  past,  here  and  there,  and  lighted  it  up;  days  and 
nights,  dreams,  ambitions,  aspirations.  Some  dreams,  some 
ambitions  were  in  the  way  of  fulfilment.  Medway  Ashen- 
dyne  was  within  her;  she,  too,  knew  Wanderlust —  "for  to 
admire  an'  for  to  see."  She  had  wandered  and  had  seen. 
She  would  always  love  to  wander,  crave  for  to  see  and  to  ad 
mire.  ...  To  write  —  to  earn  —  to  write.  .  .  .  Her  lips  curved 
into  the  slightest  smile.  The  old  days  and  nights  when  she 
had  wondered,  wondered  if  that  would  ever  come  to  pass,  if  it 
ever  could  come  to  pass !  It  had  come  to  pass.  To  do  better 
work,  and  always  better  work  —  that  was  a  continuing  im 
pulse;  but  it  was  still  and  steady  now,  not  fevered.  .  .  .  Her 
mind  swept  with  wider  wings.  To  know,  to  learn,  to  gain  in 
content  and  in  fineness,  to  gather  being,  knowledge,  wisdom, 
bliss  —  to  gather,  and  then  from  her  granary  to  give  the  in 
crease,  that  was  the  containing,  the  undying  desire.  She  had 
a  strange  passion  for  the  future,  for  all  that  might  become. 
She  was  sensitive  to  the  wild  and  scattered  motion  within 
the  Whole,  atom  colliding  with  atom,  blind-man's-buff — all 
looking  for  the  outlet  into  freedom,  power,  glory;  all  groping, 
beating  the  air  with  unclutching  hands,  missing  the  outlet, 
it  was  perhaps  so  small.  She  thought  of  an  expression  of 
George  Meredith's,  "To  see  the  lynx  that  sees  the  light." 
To  see  it —  to  follow — to  help  find  the  opening.  .  .  .  What 
was  needed  was  direction,  and  then  unity  of  movement,  the 
atoms  in  one  stream,  resistless.  That,  when  the  lightning  bolt 


HAGAR   IN    LONDON  265 

went  across  the  sky, was  what  happened;  corpuscles  stream 
ing  freely,  going  side  by  side,  not  face  against  face,  not 
energy  dashing  itself  endlessly  against  energy.  It  was  all  one, 
physical  and  psychic;  power  lay  in  community  of  under 
standing.  .  .  .  Public  Opinion,  community  of  understanding, 
minds  moving  in  a  like  direction,  power  resulting,  power  to 
accomplish  mighty  and  mightier  things.  .  .  .  Then  do  your 
best  to  ennoble  Public  Opinion.  Do  not  think  whether  your 
best  is  little  or  great;  do  your  best.  .  .  . 

She  opened  her  eyes  upon  the  light  sifting  down  from  the 
rose  windows.  It  was  shortening,  the  shaft;  evening  was  at 
hand  in  the  church  of  the  great  dead.  Many  who  lay  there 
had  had  within  them  a  lynx  that  saw  the  light  and  had  tried 
to  bring  the  mass  of  their  being  to  follow;  many  had  ennobled 
the  world-mind,  one  this  way  and  one  that;  each  had  brought 
to  the  vast  granary  his  handful  of  wheat.  Ruby  and  ame 
thyst,  the  light  lay  athwart  the  pillars  like  an  ethereal  stair. 
The  organist  touched  the  organ  again.  A  verger  came  down 
the  aisle;  it  was  closing  time.  Hagar  rose  and  went  out  into 
what  sunshine  lay  over  London. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

BY  THE   SEA 

BUT  after  all  they  did  not  go  to  Bogota.  That  autumn  a 
revolution  flared  up  in  Colombia.  Medway  considered  the 
matter,  but  finally  shrugged  and  shook  his  head.  His  point 
gained  and  Bogota  prepared  for,  he  gave  the  idea  up  "for 
this  time"  with  entire  nonchalance.  But  they  were  in  New 
York  by  now,  and  something  must  be  done.  He  went  with 
Hagar  to  Gilead  Balm  for  two  weeks  —  going  home  for  the 
second  time  in  eight  years.  The  first  time  had  been  perhaps 
two  years  after  his  accident.  Old  Miss  had  cried  out  so  to 
him  to  come,  had  so  passionately  besought  him  to  let  her  see 
him  again,  and  Hagar  had  so  steadfastly  supported  her 
claim,  that  at  last  he  gave  in  and  went.  He  spent  two  months 
at  Gilead  Balm,  and  he  had  been  gracious  and  considerate 
to  all  the  family  with  an  extra  touch  for  his  mother.  But 
when  he  went  away  he  evidently  considered  that  he  had 
done  all  that  mortal  could  ask,  and  though  Old  Miss  con 
tinued  to  write  to  him  every  three  months,  and  though  she 
always  said,  "And  when  are  you  coming  home?"  she  never 
so  urged  the  matter  again. 

Now  he  went  with  Hagar  down  through  the  late  autumn 
country  to  his  birthplace,  and  stayed  for  a  fortnight,  as 
unruffled,  debonair,  and  dominant  as  before.  The  Colonel 
and  Old  Miss  had  each  of  them  years  enough  now;  as  age  is 
counted  they  were  old.  But  each  came  of  a  long-lived  stock, 


BY   THE  SEA  267 

and  they  held  their  own  to  a  marvel.  Hagar  could  see  the 
difference  the  years  had  made,  but  there  was  no  overwhelm 
ing  difference.  The  Colonel  did  not  ride  so  far,  and  Old  Miss, 
though  she  jealously  guarded  her  key-basket  and  abated 
authority  not  a  jot,  was  less  active  than  of  old.  She  had 
grown  rather  deaf,  and  Medway  avoided  much  conversa 
tion  with  her.  Captain  Bob  was  more  broken;  he  looked 
older  than  the  elder  brother.  Luna  was  dead  long  ago,  and 
he  had  another  hound,  Lisa.  He  was  fond  of  Lisa  and  Lisa 
of  him,  but  Lisa  was  not  Luna,  and  he  was  very  faithful  to 
Luna's  memory  and  always  telling  stories  of  her  intelligence 
and  exploits.  Miss  Serena  had  changed  very  little.  Mrs.  Green 
was  dead,  and  the  overseer's  house  at  the  moment  stood 
empty.  Car'line  was  dead,  too,  but  Mary  Magazine  kept 
house  for  Isham.  Hagar  walked  down  to  the  ferry,  and  she 
and  Mary  Magazine  talked  about  the  old  flower  dolls  and  the 
hayloft,  and  the  cavern  by  the  spring.  She  walked  by  her 
self  upon  the  ridge,  and  sat  under  the  cucumber  tree,  and 
went  to  the  north  side,  and,  leaning  against  the  beech,  which 
had  grown  to  be  a  good-sized  tree,  looked  down  the  long 
slope  to  the  hollow  and  streamlet,  the  sunken  boulder  and 
thicket. 

The  two  weeks  passed.  Indian  summer  held  throughout 
November.  "This  dreamy  place  makes  you  disinclined  to 
vigorous  planning,"  said  Medway.  "I  think,  Gipsy,  that  we 
will  drift  on  down  through  Florida,  and  cross  to  Cuba." 

This  year  there  were  evidently  cross-winds.  At  Palm 
Beach,  Medway  came  upon  an  old  acquaintance,  associate 
of  ancient  days  in  Paris,  an  artist  with  whom  he  had  ram 
bled  through  Fontainebleau  forest  and  drunk  good  wine  in 


268  HAGAR 

Barbizon.  For  years  each  had  been  to  the  other  a  thin  mem 
ory;  now,  almost  with  violence,  the  attraction  renewed  itself. 
But  the  artist  was  not  going  to  Cuba;  he  was  going  to  the 
Bahamas.  He  had  a  commission  to  paint  a  portrait,  and  his 
subject,  who  was  a  Chicago  multi-millionaire,  had  elected  to 
winter  at  Nassau  and  to  give  the  sittings  there.  Commis 
sions  evidently  did  not  come  every  day  to  the  artist,  who  was 
post-post-impressionist,  and  he  was  quite  willing  to  go  to 
Nassau,  jubilantly  so,  in  fact.  He  said  that,  for  once,  light 
was  going  to  be  thrown  upon  the  multi-millionaire. 

Medway  strove  to  persuade  him  to  forfeit  the  commission 
and  go  to  Cuba;  and  he  was  even,  it  was  evident,  prepared 
to  make  the  proceeding  no  financial  loss.  But  the  artist 
stated  explicitly  that  he  had  a  sense  of  honour  and  could 
not  leave  the  Chicagoan  in  the  lurch;  besides  he  wanted  to 
paint  that  portrait.  "Come  and  see  me  do  it,  old  fellow! 
I'm  going  to  take  a  reasonable  small  house  with  a  garden, 
knock  out  partitions  and  make  a  studio.  One  commission 
leads  to  another:  —  Light  on  the  whole  bunch.  —  Oh,  I'm 
told  that  you've  got  a  million,  too!  How  the  devil  did  you 
get  into  that  galley?"  In  the  end,  rather  than  part  with 
the  old  companion,  Medway  exchanged  Cuba  for  the  Ba 
hamas. 

Thomson  found  a  house  that  he  thought  would  answer. 
Hagar  went  with  him  to  see  it,  and  agreed  that  it  would. 
Both  spoke  entirely  with  reference  to  Medway.  Back  at  the 
great  hotel,  she  explained  its  advantages.  "There's  a  pleas 
ing,  tangled  garden,  palms  and  orange  trees  and  hibiscus,  and 
a  high  garden  wall.  The  verandahs,  upper  and  lower,  are 
wide.  You  get  the  air,  and  you  have,  besides  the  town,  a 


BY   THE  SEA  269 

great  sweep  of  this  turquoise  sea.  There 's  only  a  short,  quiet, 
easy  street  between  the  house  and  Mr.  Greer's  studio.  I 
think  that  it  will  answer." 

It  answered  very  well  as  Medway  granted.  He  and  Greer 
were  much  together.  The  Chicagoan,  when  he  arrived,  proved 
to  be  a  good  fellow,  too,  earnest  in  his  endeavour  to  play 
blotting-paper  to  culture.  Greer  gathered  from  the  hotel 
several  congenial  Americans.  Medway,  who  always  had  the 
best  of  letters,  provided  an  Englishman  or  two  from  the 
more  or  less  stationary  Government  set.  The  studio  became 
practically  his  and  Greer's  in  common;  they  were  extraord 
inarily  good  talkers  and  they  rolled  wonderful  cigarettes  and 
Mahomet  made  cafe  fort.  A  violinist  of  some  note  was  stop 
ping  at  the  hotel,  and  he  and  his  violin  added  themselves  to 
the  company.  When  a  traveller  who  knew  Lhasa,  Bangkok, 
and  Baalbek,  Knossos  and  Kairwan  and  Kandy,  was  joined 
to  the  others,  it  became  evident  that  Medway  had  made  his 
circle  and  found  the  winter's  entertainment. 

He  had  never  made  greatly  too  large  demand  upon  Hagar's 
hours.  He  was  full  of  resources,  supple  in  turning  from  per 
son  to  person  of  all  his  varied  acquaintance  in  varied  lands, 
moderately  appreciative,  too,  of  the  value  of  solitude.  On 
her  side  she  would  have  stood,  had  there  been  need,  for  time 
to  herself.  It  was  to  her  the  very  breath  of  life.  But  there 
was  never  extreme  need.  She  was  within  call  when  he  wanted 
to  turn  to  her,  and  that  was  sufficient.  But  this  winter,  it 
was  evident,  she  would  have  her  days  to  a  greater  extent 
than  usual  in  her  own  hand.  There  was  never  any  accounting 
to  him  for  her  days  apart  from  him;  almost  from  the  first 
there  had  obtained  that  relation  of  personal  liberty.  To  do 


270  HAGAR 

him  justice  he  felt  no  desire  to  exact  such  an  accounting,  and 
had  he  tried  to  do  so  he  would  have  failed. 

Hagar  saw  that  she  was  going  to  have  time,  time  this 
winter;  and,  what  she  liked,  they  would  be  long  enough  in 
one  place  to  allow  her  to  work  with  advantage.  There  would 
be  visitors,  invitations  —  already  they  had  begun:  —  Med- 
way  would  wish  to  give,  now  and  then,  a  garden-party,  a 
dinner-party.  But  life  would  by  no  means  run  to  an  exchange 
of  visits  and  entertainments.  Father  and  daughter  had 
alike,  in  this  direction,  the  art  of  sufficient  but  not  too  much. 
Anything  beyond  a  certain,  not-great  amount  wearied  and 
exasperated  him,  wearied  and  saddened  her.  All  that  would 
be  kept  in  bounds.  Hagar,  pacing  the  garden,  saw  quiet 
days,  surcharged  with  light. 

She  was  thinking  out  her  half-year's  work.  A  volume  of 
stories,  eight  or  ten  in  all  —  such  a  subject  and  such  a  sub 
ject;  such  or  such  an  incident,  situation,  value;  such  a  man, 
such  a  woman.  She  knew  that  her  work  was  good,  that  it 
was  counted  very  good,  counted  to  her  for  name  and  fame. 
All  that  was  something  to  her;  rather,  it  was  much  to  her; 
but  only  positively  so,  not  relatively.  It  could  by  no  means 
fill  her  universe.  For  years  she  had  taken  now  this,  now  that 
filament-like  value  and  with  skill  and  power  had  enlarged, 
coloured,  and  arranged  it  so  that  her  great  audience  might 
also  see;  and  she  had  done,  she  thought,  service  thereby; 
had,  in  her  place,  served  beauty  and  knowledge.  But  the 
hunger  grew  to  serve  more  fully.  Knowledge,  knowledge  — 
wisdom,  wisdom  —  action.  .  .  . 

Hagar  moved  to  a  stone  seat  that  commanded  an  opening 
in  the  garden  wall.  She  looked  out,  down  and  over  a  short, 


BY   THE   SEA  271 

steep,  dazzling  white  street  and  a  swarm  of  low,  pale-coloured, 
chimneyless  houses,  with  the  green  between  of  tropic  trees, 
to  the  surf  upon  the  coral  shore  and  the  opaque,  marvellous 
blue  of  the  surrounding  sea.  The  creative  passion  was  upon 
her,  but  it  moved  nowadays  as  it  had  moved  with  many 
an  idealist-realist  before.  ...  To  mould  living  material, 
to  deal  with  the  objective,  to  deal  with  the  living  world,  not 
the  world  of  bright-hued  shadows;  to  see  the  living  world 
lighten  to  the  dawn,  see  the  dull  hues  brighten,  see  the 
beautyless  become  beauty  and  beauty  grow  vivid,  to  see  all 
the  world  lift,  lift  toward  the  golden  day,  to  see  the  race  be 
come  the  over-race.  .  .  .  She  would  have  died  for  that  and 
died  to  help.  She  laid  her  arms  along  the  stone  and  her  head 
upon  them.  "And  yet  I  do  not  help,  or  not  with  all  that 
is  in  me.  I  sit  here  to  one  side  and  spin  fancies." 

She  rose,  and  put  on  a  shady  hat,  and  going  out  into  the 
dazzling  white  street  moved  down  it,  and  then  by  another 
across  for  some  distance  to  the  white  road  by  the  sea.  Her 
back  to  the  town,  she  walked  on.  A  few  scattered  palms,  the 
sea-wall;  then  where  it  ended,  an  edging  tangle  of  the  hard 
green 'leaves  of  the  sea-grape;  outside  of  that,  low  fantastic 
ally  worn  coral  rock  and  the  white  dash  and  spray  of  the 
water.  Though  the  sun  was  high  and  the  sky  intense  and 
cloudless,  a  wind  blew  always;  the  air  was  dry  and  the 
day  not  too  warm.  There  was  hardly  anyone  upon  the  road. 
She  met  a  cluster  of  negro  children  and  talked  with  them  a 
little.  A  surrey,  of  the  type  that  waited  on  the  street  near 
the  great  hotels,  passed  her,  driven  sleepily  by  a  sleepy  negro, 
within  it  a  large  man  in  white.  When  it  was  gone  in  a  littld 
cloud  of  white  dust  there  was  only  the  long  road,  and  the 


272  HAGAR 

unyielding  monotonous  green  of  the  sea-grape,  and  the  water 
thundering  in  an  undertone.  Hagar  turned  aside,  broke 
through  the  grape,  and  came  down  to  the  edge  of  the  surf. 
There  was  a  rock  hollowed  until  it  made  a  rude  chair.  She 
sat  down  and  looked  out  to  sea.  On  one  hand,  across  the  har 
bour  mouth,  rose  from  a  finger-narrow  sliver  of  land,  a  squat 
white  lighthouse;  but  turn  a  little  and  look  away  and  there 
was  only  the  open  sea,  unimaginably  blue,  azure  as  the  sky. 
The  soft  wind  blew,  the  surf  broke  in  low  thunder.  Hagar, 
her  chin  upon  her  hand,  sat  for  a  long  time,  very  still. 

"  How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living  —  " 

It  seemed  true  enough,  sitting  there  in  the  sunshine,  in  the 
heart  of  so  rich  a  beauty.  She  agreed.  How  good  it  was, 
how  good  it  often  was !  —  only,  only.  .  .  .  The  line  was  true, 
perhaps,  of  all  at  some  time,  of  some  at  all  times  —  though 
she  doubted  that  —  but  never  of  all  at  all  times.  It  was  true 
of  a  host  at  very  few  times ;  it  was  never  so  true  of  any  as  it 
might  be. 

"  How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living!  —  how  fit  to  employ 
All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  forever  in  joy!  " 

Who  felt  that  ?  —  Not  even  the  poets  immemorial  who  so 
sang  —  sang  often  in  sadness  of  heart!  They  felt  only  the 
promise  that  the  future  cast  before  her. 

Association  of  ideas  was  so  strong  and  quick  within  her 
that  she  was  apt  to  call  up  images,  not  singly,  but  in  series 
and  sequences.  Her  mind  swept  away  from  the  West  Indian 
sea.  She  saw  her  mother  at  Gilead  Balm,  beating  her  wings 
against  invisible  bars ;  the  woman  on  the  packet-boat,  racked 
with  anxiety,  her  child  in  her  arms,  begging  her  way  to  her 


BY   THE   SEA  273 

sick  mate;  the  figure  of  the  convict  at  the  lock,  Thomasine  in 
the  silk  mill,  Omega  Street.  .  .  .  She  thought  of  Rachel  and 
her  married  life,  of  things  which  she  had  heard  at  the  Settle 
ment,  and  the  pain  in  Elizabeth  Eden's  eyes  as  she  told  them. 
She  thought  of  Eglantine  and  its  insidious  sapping,  sapping 
...  of  Miss  Serena  and  her  stunted,  small  industries  and  too- 
obedient  soul.  She  thought  of  Miss  Bedford,  and  of  Francie 
Smythe,  and  of  Mrs.  LeGrand.  She  seemed  again  to  hear 
Mrs.  LeGrand  upon  Roger  Michael.  She  thought  of  the 
Bishop  and  the  day  he  passed  sentence  upon  a  child  for  read 
ing  a  great  book.  She  saw  the  thicket  back  of  the  ridge,  and 
dogs  set  by  a  human  being  upon  a  human  being.  She  saw 
winter  streets  in  New  York,  and  the  light  shining  on  the 
three  balls  of  the  pawnbrokers,  and  a  bread-line,  and  men 
and  women  huddled  on  park  benches  while  the  wind  shook 
the  leafless  trees.  She  saw  Wall  Street  and  St.  Timothy's. 
Her  mind  passed  overseas.  Russia  —  three  summers  before 
they  had  been  there.  Medway,  though  he  laughed  at  her, 
had  agreed  to  a  stepping  aside  which  she  proposed.  She 
wished  to  see  Tolstoy.  It  was  always  easy  to  him  to  arrange 
such  things,  and  it  had  ended  in  their  being  invited  for  two 
days  to  Yasnaya  Polyana.  She  saw  again  the  old  man  and 
heard  his  slow  words.  Non-resistance  —  but  his  mind,  through 
his  pen,  was  not  non-resistant!  It  acted,  it  scourged,  it  fought, 
it  strove  to  build  and  to  clear  the  ground  that  it  might  build. 
He  deceived  himself,  the  tremendous  old  man.  He  thought 
himself  quietist  as  Lao-Tzu,  but  there  in  that  bare,  small 
study  he  cried,  Allah!  Allah!  and  fought  like  a  Mohamme 
dan.  Russia  and  the  burden  of  Russia  .  .  .  the  world  and 
the  burden  of  the  world.  She  thought  of  the  East,  and 


274  HAGAR 

now  her  mind  entered  Zenanas  —  of  India,  and  it  was  the 
child  marriages;  of  Turkey,  Egypt,  Algeria,  Morocco,  and  it 
was  the  veiled  women,  proclaimed  without  souls.  She  saw 
the  eunuchs  at  the  gate.  Away  to  Europe  —  and  she  saw 
that  concept  grading  away,  but  never  quite  gone,  never 
quite  gone.  Woman  as  mind  undying,  self-authoritative  and 
unrelated,  the  arbiter  of  her  own  destiny,  the  definer  of  her 
own  powers,  with  an  equal  goal  and  right-of-way  —  few  were 
the  earthly  places  where  that  ray  fell! 

"How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living — " 

"With  vast  modifications  and  withdrawals,  with  dross  and 
alloy,"  said  Hagar.  "  But  it  might  be  —  O,  God,  it  might 
be!  Lift  all  desire  and  you  lift  the  whole.  Lift  the  present  — 
steady,  steady!  —  and  know  that  one  day  the  future  will 
blossom.  And  a  woman's  work  is  now  with  women.  Solidar 
ity  —  unification  —  woman  at  last  for  woman." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

DENNY    GAYDE 

A  FEW  days  after  this  she  grew  tired  one  morning  of  working. 
At  ten  o'clock  she  put  away  paper  and  pencil,  pen  and  ink, 
letters  and  manuscript,  and  went  out,  first  into  the  garden, 
and  then  through  the  gate  in  the  wall  into  the  high  white 
light  of  the  street  and  the  pale-coloured  town.  Few  were 
abroad  in  this  section;  she  gave  a  friendly  nod  to  those  she 
met,  but  they  were  not  many  —  an  old  negress  carrying 
chickens,  a  few  slow  wagons,  a  priest,  a  young  girl  and  boy, 
white-clad,  with  tennis  rackets;  two  or  three  others.  The 
street  swam  in  light,  the  blue  vault  above  sprang  intense, 
there  was  just  enough  air  to  keep  away  languor.  She  turned 
into  the  grounds  of  the  old,  closed  Royal  Victoria  Hotel. 
Here  was  shade  and  greater  freshness.  She  sat  down  on  the 
rock  coping  of  the  driveway;  then,  as  there  was  no  one  about, 
lay  down  upon  it  pillowing  her  head  on  her  arms.  Above  her 
was  a  tall,  tall  tree,  and  between  the  branches  the  deep  and 
vivid  blue.  It  seemed  so  near,  it  was  as  though  with  a  little 
upward  effort  you  might  touch  a  sapphire  roof.  Between  the 
leaves  the  sun  scattered  gold  sequins.  They  lay  upon  her 
white  skirt,  the  hat  she  had  discarded,  her  arms,  her  hair. 
She  looked  sideways  watching  a  chameleon,  burnished  and 
slender,  upon  the  wall  below  her.  It  saw  her  at  last  and  with 
a  jerk  of  its  head  scuttled  away.  Hagar  laughed,  sat  up  and 
stretched  her  arms.  Some  neighbouring,  one-storey  house, 


276  HAGAR 

buried  in  foliage,  possessed  a  parrot  or  cockatoo.  She 
watched  it  now,  on  some  hidden  perch,  a  vivid  splash  of 
colour  in  the  enfolding  green,  dancing  about,  chattering  and 
screaming.  Some  curious,  exotic  fragrance  came  to  her;  she 
could  not  trace  its  source.  "It's  a  morning  for  the  gods!" 
she  said,  and  walked  slowly  by  winding  paths  downward 
through  the  garden  to  the  street.  Before  her,  seen  through 
foliage,  rose  the  curiously  shaped  building  with  a  history 
where  now  was  lodged  the  public  library.  She  had  visited  it 
several  times;  she  liked  the  place,  which  had  a  quaintness, 
and  liked  the  way  the  air  blew  in  through  its  deep  windows; 
and  where  books  were  she  was  at  home.  She  crossed  the 
white  street,  entered  and  went  up  the  stair  past  dusty  casts, 
pieces  of  coral  and  sea-curios,  and  into  the  round  room 
where  English  and  American  papers  and  magazines  were 
spread  upon  a  table.  From  this  centre  sprang,  like  short 
spokes,  alcoves  made  by  the  book-stacks.  Each  of  these  di 
visions  had  its  chair  or  two  and  its  open  window.  The  air 
came  in  coolly,  deliciously.  There  were  the  librarian  and  two 
or  three  people  standing  or  seated  about  the  central  table,  — 
no  one  else  in  the  cool,  quiet  place.  Hagar,  too,  stood  by  the 
table  for  a  while,  turning  over  the  January  magazines,  look 
ing  at  the  table  of  contents  or  glancing  at  some  article  or 
illustration.  Catholicism  versus  Ultramontanism  —  Why  Ire 
land  is  Disloyal  —  Drama  of  the  Future  —  The  Coal  Strike 
and  its  Lessons  —  Labour  and  the  Trusts  —  Labour  and 
Capital  —  Municipalization  of  Public  Services  —  The  Battle 
ship  of  the  Future — The  War  against  Disease  —  Tschai- 
kowsky  and  Tolstoy  —  Mankind  in  the  Making  —  Mendel's 
Law  —  The  Advancement  of  Woman  —  The  Woman  who 


DENNY   GAYDE  277 

Toils  —  Variation  in  Man  and  Woman  —  Genesis  of  the 
Esthetic  Categories  —  New  Metaphysical  Movement  — 
Inversion  of  Ideas  as  to  the  Structure  of  the  Universe  — 
The  World  and  the  Individual.  —  After  a  while  she  left  these 
and  the  table  and  moved  to  one  of  the  alcoves.  It  was  not  a 
day  somehow  for  magazines.  The  rows  of  books!  Her  gaze 
lingered  with  fondness  upon  them  —  this  familiar  title,  this 
loved  old  friend  and  that.  Finally  she  drew  forth  a  volume 
of  Keats,  and  with  it  sat  down  in  the  sweet  air  from  the 
window. 

"  No,  no!  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 

Wolf  sbane,  tight-rooted,  for  its  poisonous  wine  — " 

An  hour  passed.  A  man,  who  had  come  into  the  room  a  few 
minutes  before,  was  standing,  looking  about  him  —  evidently 
the  first  time  he  had  been  in  the  building. 

The  librarian  joined  him.  "It's  a  pleasant  old  place,  is  n't 
it?"  she  said  politely. 

"It  certainly  is,"  answered  the  man.  "But  it's  so  curious 
with  that  narrow  stair  and  these  deep-set  windows." 

"Yes.  You  see  it 's  the  old  jail.  Once  they  kept  men  here 
instead  of  books." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  the  man  said,  "This  is  the 
nobler  use,  don't  you  think?" 

"Oh,"  said  the  librarian;  "but  of  course  they  were  wicked 
men  —  that  is,  most  of  them.  There  was  n't  anything  else 
to  do  with  them." 

"I  see,"  said  the  man.  He  looked  about  him.  "Well,  it 's 
sweet  and  clean  and  useful  now  at  last!" 

Some  one  called  the  librarian  and  she  went  away.  The 
man  moved  on  with  slow  steps  from  alcove  to  alcove.  Hagar, 


278  HAGAR 

from  her  recess,  watched  him,  fascinated.  Her  book  had 
fallen  upon  the  floor.  With  half  of  her  mind  she  was  again  in 
a  poor  hall  in  New  York  on  a  winter  night.  .  .  .  Five  or  six 
people  entered  the  library  together.  They  came  between  her 
and  the  man  she  was  following  with  her  eyes.  When  at  last 
they  moved  from  before  her  alcove,  she  saw  him  leaving  the 
place.  Before  she  could  hastily  rise  and  come  out  into  the 
wider  space  he  was  out  of  the  room  upon  the  landing  —  he 
was  going  downstairs.  She  caught  up  the  book  from  the 
floor,  thrust  it  hurriedly  into  its  place,  and  with  a  light  and 
rapid  step  followed.  He  was  at  the  foot  of  the  stair  when  she 
reached  the  head. 

"Oh,"  she  called,  "will  you  stop  —  will  you  wait?" 
He  stopped  short,  turned.  She  was  halfway  down  the  stair, 
which  was  not  long.   "I  beg  your  pardon.  Was  it  to  me  you 
were  speaking?" 

"Yes!"  She  came  up  with  him  —  they  stood  together  in 
the  light-washed  doorway.  "I —  You  do  not  remember 
me."  She  put  up  her  hand  and  took  off  her  wide  hat  of  straw 
and  lace.  "Do  you,  now?" 

He  gazed.   "No  — Yes!  Wait Oh— h!  You  are  the 

little  girl  again!" 

They  both  laughed  with  pure  pleasure.  A  soft,  bright 
swirl  of  feeling  enfolded  the  ancient  doorway. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  have  so  often  thought  of  you!" 
"Not  oftener  than  I  have  thought  of  you.  .  .  .  YouVe 
always  been  like  a  quaint,  bright  picture  and  a  piece  of  music 
in  my  mind.  —  I  don't  know  your  name." 

"Hagar  Ashendyne.  —  And  I  don't  know  yours." 
"Denny  Gayde.  ...  I  tried  to  find  you  in  the  crowd  that 


DENNY   GAYDE 


279 


night  —  the  night  of  the  meeting,  you  remember  —  but  you 
were  gone." 

"  Yes.  And  for  weeks  after  that  night  I  used  to  think  that 
perhaps  I  might  meet  you  on  the  street  any  day.  And  then  I 
went  away." 

The  sun  was  dazzling  where  they  stood.  People,  too,  were 
coming  down  the  stairs  behind  them. 

"Let  us  go  somewhere  where  we  can  talk,"  said  Hagar; 
"the  gardens  over  there  —  have  you  time?" 

"  Pm  here  on  a  holiday.  I  came  yesterday.  I  don't  know  a 
soul  and  I  was  lonely.  Pve  all  the  time  there  is.'' 

They  crossed  the  street,  passed  under  an  arch  of  blossom 
ing  vines,  and  entered  the  Royal  Victoria's  garden  —  de 
serted,  cool,  and  silent  as  when  Hagar  had  quitted  it  earlier 
in  the  morning.  Built  high  above  the  ground,  about  the  vast 
trunk  of  a  vast  silk-cotton  tree  was  a  square,  railed  platform 
reached  by  a  flight  of  steps.  A  bench  ran  around  it;  it  was  a 
cool  and  airy  perch,  chequered  with  shadows  of  leaf  and  twig 
and  with  a  sight  of  the  azure  sea.  The  two  mounted  the  steps, 
and  moving  around  the  trunk  to  a  well-shaded  angle,  sat 
down.  No  one  at  all  seemed  near;  for  solitude  it  was  much 
like  a  tree  house  which,  shipwrecked,  they  might'  have  built 
on  a  desert  island. 

"Life's  the  most  curious  thing!"  said  Gayde. 

"Is  n't  it?  'Curiouser  and  curiouser!'  said  Alice.  "I  was 
twelve  years  old  that  summer  we  shared  the  apple  turnovers." 

"We  didn't  share  them.  You  gave  me  all.  —  I  was  nine 
teen." 

"And  then  —  how  many  years?  —  Nine,  is  n't  it?  —  that 
night  at  that  Socialist  meeting,  when  you  spoke — " 


28o  HAGAR 

"What  were  you  doing  there?  I  asked  about  you  —  I  got 
to  know  well  many  of  the  people  who  were  there  that  night 
—  but  no  one  could  identify  you.  And  though  I  kept  you  in 
mind,  and  looked  for  you,  too,  I  could  never  find  you  again." 

"  I  was  spending  the  winter  in  New  York.  That  night  we 
had  missed  the  theatre.  We  walked  down  Fourth  Avenue 
and  across  —  we  were  seeing  New  York  at  night.  A  crowd 
was  going  into  that  hall,  and  we  went  in  too  — " 

"I  see." 

"Not  until  I  got  home  that  night  did  I  remember  that  I 
did  not  know  your  name.  .  .  .  And  in  a  month  I  was  upon  the 
ocean,  and  I  have  been  in  America  very  little  in  all  the  years 
since.  I  am  here  this  winter  with  my  father.  .  .  .  And  you?" 

She  regarded  him  with  dark  eyes,  simple  and  serious  and 
interested  as  the  eyes  with  which  as  a  child  she  had  regarded 
him  above  her  flower  dolls.  He  was  not  hungry  and  haggard 
and  fear-ridden  as  then,  nor  was  he  as  he  had  been  the  night 
of  the  Socialist  meeting,  somewhat  embarrassed  and  stumb 
ling,  strong,  but  piteous,  too.  .  .  .  He  was  a  little  thin  and  worn, 
and  looked  as  though  he  had  been  ill,  she  noted,  but  he  was 
quiet,  at  ease,  and  assured.  There  needed  no  elaborate  pro 
cess  in  telling  her  things;  to  intuition  she  added  a  considerable 
knowledge  of  the  world  and  of  ways  and  means;  to  heart, 
intellect.  One  could  do  much  in  nine  years;  she  knew  that 
from  personal  experience.  This  man  had  added  to  native 
strength  education,  experience,  poise,  and  significance.  She 
might  have  said  culture,  only  she  had  grown  to  dislike  the 
word.  He  had  not,  evidently,  attained  to  wealth  as  wealth 
is  counted.  In  a  region  where  the  male  visitor,  though  he 
might  arrive  in  winter  garments,  promptly  sloughed  them 


DENNY   GAYDE  281 

off  for  fine  white  flannels,  he  had  not  followed  custom.  It  was 
true  that  he  was  not  wearing  a  winter  suit,  but  what  was 
probably  a  last  summer's  one.  It  was  not  white  '- —  only  a 
grey,  light-weight  business  suit,  ready-made  and  somewhat 
worn.  His  straw  hat  looked  new.  He  was  clean-shaven.  His 
face  was  at  once  the  face  of  the  boy  in  the  thicket,  and  the 
face  of  the  workman  talking  out  of  bitter  experience  to  other 
workmen,  and  a  new  face,  too,  —  a  judging  face,  ascetic 
rather  than  not,  with  eyes  that  carried  a  passion  for  some 
thing  vaster  than  the  flesh.  "And  you ? "  asked  Hagar again. 

But  he  had  fallen  into  a  brown  study.  "Hagar  Ashendyne 
—  You  can't  be  —  do  you  mean  that  you  are  —  Hagar  Ash 
endyne,  the  writer?" 

"Yes,  Hagar  Ashendyne,  the  writer."  She  smiled.  "It 
never  occurred  to  me  that  you  might  read  what  I  have  written. 
Have  you?" 

"Yes,  I  have  read  what  you  have  written  —  read  it  and 
cared  for  it  greatly.  .  .  .  Well,  all  life 's  a  strange  encounter!" 

"And  that's  true  enough.  And  now  will  you  tell  me  about 
yourself?" 

His  eyes  smiled  back  at  her.  "Let  me  see  —  what  is  there 
to  tell?  That  night  in  New  York.  .  .  .  Well,  after  that  night 
...  I  was  fortunate  in  the  work  I  got,  and  I  rose  from  grade 
to  grade.  I  studied  hard,  every  moment  I  could  get.  I  read 
and  read  and  read.  I  became  secretary  to  a  certain  Socialist 
organization.  I  have  been  for  some  years  a  Socialist  organ 
izer,  lecturer,  and  occasional  writer.  In  the  summer  I  am  to 
take  the  editorship  of  a  Socialist  paper.  Behold  the  short  and 
simple  annals  of  the  poor!" 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  be  in  Nassau?" 


282  HAGAR 

"  A  whole  month.  These  last  two  years  have  been  years  of 
exacting,  constant  work,  and  there  's  a  prospect  of  the  same 
continuing.  I  thought  I  'd  got  my  second  wind  —  and  then  I 
came  down  suddenly.  The  doctor  said  that  if  I  wanted  to  do 
the  paper  justice  —  and  I  do  —  I  'd  have  to  give  it  an  editor 
who  could  sleep.  So  he  and  Rose  packed  me  off." 

"Rose?" 

"My  wife  —  Rose  Darragh." 

He  spoke  as  though  she  would  know  the  name.  Indeed,  it 
seemed  to  have  for  her  some  association;  but  it  wavered  like 
a  dream;  she  could  not  fix  it.  She  seemed  to  feel  how  long 
she  had  been  away  from  America  —  out  of  touch  —  not 
knowing  things,  events,  trendings.  "Nine  years,"  she  said 
again,  uncertainly;  "so  much  happens  in  nine  years." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Personal  life  changes  rapidly  to-day  — 
with  everything  more  flexible,  with  horizons  growing  wider 
—  and  the  age  follows  and  changes  and  changes  —  changes 
and  mounts.  We  are  in  for  a  great  century.  I'm  glad  to  be 
alive!" 

"Yes,  I  am,  too."  Presently  she  looked  at  her  watch.  It 
was  luncheon-time.  Would  he  not  take  it  with  her  father  and 
herself?  No;  he  would  not  do  that  to-day;  but  leaving  the 
great  tree  and  the  garden  they  walked  together  to  the  house. 
At  the  gate  in  the  wall  she  said,  "Come  to  see  me  here  to 
morrow  morning,  if  you  will.  I  should  like  you  to  come  and 
go  as  you  please." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  then,  with  emphasis,  "friend.  .  .  . 
That  is  what,  when  I  was  nineteen  and  afterwards,  I  called 
you  in  my  mind." 

"It's  a  good  word  —  *  friend.'   Let  us  use  it  still," 


DENNY   GAYDE  283 

"With  all  the  will  in  the  world.  You  are  wonderful  to  me 
—  Hagar  Ashendyne." 

"I  am  glad  to  have  found  you  again,  Denny  Gayde." 
That  night,  suddenly,  before  she  slept,  she  placed  the 
name  Rose  Darragh.  ...  A  feminist — A  Socialist  agitator 
and  leader  —  a  writer  of  vigorous  prose  —  sociology  —  econ 
omics.  .  .  .  She  seemed  to  see  her  picture  in  some  magazine  of 
current  life  —  a  face  rich,  alert,  and  daring,  rising  on  a  strong 
throat  from  a  blouse  like  a  peasant's. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

HAGAR    AND    DENNY 

THE  afternoon  sun  yet  made  a  dazzle  of  the  white  road.  In 
frequent  trees  cast  infrequent  shadows.  It  was  warm,  but 
not  too  warm,  with  an  endless  low  wind.  The  tide  was  going 
out;  there  spread  an  expanse  of  iridescent  shallows,  and  be 
yond  a  line  of  water  so  blue  that  it  was  unearthly.  There  was 
a  tonic  smell  of  salt  and  marsh.  The  wheels  of  the  surrey, 
the  horse's  hoofs,  brought  a  pleasant,  monotonous,  rhyth 
mic  sense  of  sound  and  motion. 

"That  is  the  shell  house,"  said  Hagar,  breaking  a  long 
silence;  "that  small,  small  house  with  the  boat  behind.  There 
you  can  buy  throngs  of  things  that  come  out  of  the  sea  — 
coral  and  sponges  and  purple  sea-fans  and  wonderful  shells." 

"I  walked  out  here  last  week.  There's  a  sick  child  I  know 
—  a  little  cripple.  I  am  going  to  take  her  a  great  box  of  the 
prettiest  shells.  She  '11  lie  there  and  play  with  them  in  her 
dingy  corner  of  the  dingy  room  where  all  the  others  work, 
and  maybe  they  '11  bring  her  a  little  of  all  this.  .  .  .  God 
knows!" 

The  wheels  went  on.  They  passed  the  small  house  with  a 
great  lump  of  coral  on  one  side  of  the  door,  and  a  tall  purple 
sea-fan  upon  the  other. 

"I  sometimes  think,"  said  Hagar,  "that  the  trouble  with 
me  is  that  I  am  too  general.  My  own  sharp  inner  struggle 
was  for  intellectual  and  spiritual  freedom.  I  had  to  think 


HAGAR  AND   DENNY  285 

away  from  concepts  with  which  the  atmosphere  in  which  I 
was  raised  was  saturated.  I  had  to  think  away  from  creeds 
and  dogmas  and  affirmations  made  for  me  by  my  ancestors.  I 
had  to  think  away  from  the  idea  of  a  sacrosanct  Past  and  the 
virtue  of  Immobility;  —  not  the  true  idea  of  the  mighty  Past 
as  our  present  body  which  we  are  to  lift  and  ennoble,  and  not 
Immobility  as  the  supreme  refusal  to  be  diverted  from  that 
purpose,  —  but  the  Past,  that  is  made  up  of  steps  forward, 
set  and  stubborn  against  another  step,  and  Immobility  blind 
to  any  virtue  in  Change.  I  had  to  think  away  from  a  con 
cept  of  woman  that  the  future  can  surely  only  sadly  laugh  at. 
I  had  to  think  away  from  Sanctions  and  Authorities  and  Ta 
boos  and  Divine  Rights  —  and  when  I  had  done  so,  I  had  to 
go  back  with  the  lamp  of  wider  knowledge,  deeper  feeling, 
and  find  how  organic  and  on  the  whole  virtuous  in  its  day 
was  each  husk  and  shell.  The  trouble  was  that  in  love  with 
the  lesser  we  would  keep  out  the  stronger  day  .  .  .  and  there 
was  everywhere  a  sickness  of  conflict.  I  had  to  think  away 
from  my  own  dogmatisms  and  intolerances.  I'm  still  engaged 
in  doing  that.  .  .  .  What  has  come  of  it  all  is  a  certain  universal 
feeling.  .  .  .  I'm  not  explaining  very  well  what  I  mean,  but — 
though  I  want  to  be  able  to  do  it  —  it  is  difficult  for  me  to 
drive  the  lightning  in  a  narrow  track  to  a  definite  end.  It 's 
playing  over  everything." 

"I  see  what  you  mean.  You're  more  the  philosopher  than 
the  crusader.  Well,  we  need  philosophers,  too! .  .  .  I'm  more, 
I  think,  the  type  that  is  sharpened  to  a  point,  that  couches 
its  lance  for  one  Promised  Land,  which  it  believes  is  the  key 
to  many  another.  But  I  hold  that  it  is  better  to  move  full- 
orbed,  if  you  can." 


286  HAGAR 

"I  do  not  know —  I  do  not  know,"  said  Hagar.  "I  try  to 
plunge  with  my  whole  mind  into  some  political  or  social 
theory,  but  I  fail.  Even  the  slow  drawing-up  of  the  sub 
merged  capacities  in  woman,  even  the  helping  in  that, — which 
is  greater  than  would  be  the  discovery  of  Atlantis,  which  is 
greater  than  almost  anything  else,  —  cannot  bring  the  ends 
together.  Name  everything  and  there  is  so  much  besides!" 

"There  is  such  a  thing,"  said  Denny,  "as  going  to  the 
stake  for  what  you  know  to  be  partial,  only  factors,  scaffold 
ings,  stairs  to  mount  by.  .  .  .  Stairs  and  scaffoldings  are  nec 
essary;  therefore,  die  for  them  if  need  be." 

"I  agree  there,"  answered  Hagar. 

The  surrey  had  left  the  sight  of  the  sea.  The  pale  road 
stretched  straight  before  them,  going  on  until  it  touched  the 
cobalt  sky.  On  either  hand  stood  growing  walls,  dense  and 
thorny  as  those  about  the  Sleeping  Beauty's  palace  —  all 
manner  of  trees,  silver  palm  and  thatch  palm,  tamarind, 
poison- wood  and  plum,  ink-berry  and  jack-bush,  bound  all 
together  with  smilax  and  many  another  vine.  At  long  inter 
vals  occurred  an  opening,  a  ragged  space  and  a  hut  or  cabin, 
with  an  odour,  too  languid-sweet,  of  orange  blossoms,  and  a 
vision  of  black  children.  The  walls  closed  in  again  sombrely. 
The  road  would  have  been  a  little  dreary  but  for  the  sky  and 
the  sun  and  the  jewel-fine  air. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Hagar,  "that  there  is  a  certain  Brahmin- 
like  attitude  to  be  overcome.  I  suppose  that  to  take  wallet 
and  staff  and  go  with  the  mass  upon  the  day's  march,  encour 
aging,  lifting,  helping,  pointing  forward,  bearing  with  the 
others,  is  a  nobler  thing  than  to  run  ahead  upon  your  own 
path  and  cry  back  to  the  throng,  'Why  are  you  not  here  as 


HAGAR  AND   DENNY  287 

well?'  I  suppose  that .  .  .  and  yet  there  are  times  when  I  am 
Nietzschean,  too.  I  can  be  opposites." 

"Yes;  that  is  what  bewilders, "  said  Denny.  "To  include 
contradictories  and  irreconcilables  —  to  be  both  centripetal 
and  centrifugal  —  to  be  in  one  brain  Socialist  and  Individual 
ist!  ...  But  the  greatest  among  mankind  have  found  them 
selves  able.  They  have  been  farthest  ahead,  and  yet  they 
have  always  seemed  to  be  in  the  midst." 

The  sun  sank  low,  the  white  road  grew  pallid.  "Better 
turn  presently,"  said  Hagar. 

"When  we  get  to  that  palm.  How  wonderful  it  stands 
against  the  sky!  —  I  never  thought  that  I  should  see  palm 
trees." 

When  they  came  to  it,  the  negro  driver  turned  the  horse. 
Roll  of  wheel  and  slow  thud  of  hoofs  they  went  dreamily 
back  toward  Nassau.  The  walls  on  either  hand  were  darken 
ing;  the  sky  was  putting  on  a  splendid  dress. 

"  Years  and  years  now  I  have  been  away,"  said  Hagar.  "  In 
the  spring  I  am  going  home." 

"Home  to  —  to  Gilead  Balm?" 

"At  first,  yes,  I  think  .  .  .  then,  I  do  not  know.  I  have 
been  away  so  long.  There  are  people  in  New  York  I  want  to 
see  —  old  friends  —  women.  Do  you  chance  to  know  Eliza 
beth  Eden?" 

"Yes,  I  know  her.  She's  one  of  the  blessed."  After  a 
moment  he  said  abruptly,  "I  want  you  to  know  Rose 
Darragh." 

"Yes,  I  want  to,"  said  Hagar  simply. 

They  came  before  long  to  the  shell  house.  "Let  us  stop 
and  get  some  shells." 


288  HAGAR 

Inside  they  had  the  place,  save  for  the  merchant  of  shells, 
to  themselves.  Right  and  left  and  all  around  were  strewn  the 
pearl  and  pink  and  purply  spoils.  All  the  sunset  tints  were 
here,  and  the  beauty  of  delicate  form  —  grotesqueries,  too; 
nature  in  queer  moods.  It  was  pleasant  to  run  the  hands 
through  the  myriad  small  shells  heaped  in  baskets,  to  weigh 
the  sea-cushions  and  sea-stars  and  golden  seafeathers,  to 
admire  rose  coral  and  brain  coral  and  finger  coral,  and  hold 
the  conch  shells  to  the  ear.  Through  the  open  door,  too, 
came  the  smell  and  murmur  of  the  near-by  sea,  and  on  the 
floor  lay  one  last  splash  of  sunlight.  "Give  me  a  shell,"  said 
Hagar,  "and  I  will  give  you  one.  Then  each  of  us  will  have 
something  to  remember  the  other  by." 

They  gravely  picked  them  out,  and  it  took  some  minutes 
to  do  it.  Then  in  turn  each  crossed  to  the  merchant  in  his 
corner  and  paid  the  purchase  price,  then  came  back  to  the 
light  in  the  doorway. 

Denny  held  out  a  delicate,  translucent,  rosy  shell.  "It 
won't  hold  my  gratitude,"  he  said.  "You'll  never  know.  .  .  . 
I  used  to  see  you  in  the  moonlight,  between  me  and  the  bars. 
.  .  .  Somebody  had  cried  for  me,  .  .  .  wept  passionately.  It 
helped  to  keep  me  human.  I've  always  seen  you  with  a  light 
about  you.  This  is  your  shell." 

"Thank  you.  I  shall  keep  your  kind  gift  always,"  said 
Hagar.  She  spoke  in  a  child's  lyric  voice,  quaintly  and  prop 
erly,  so  precisely  as  she  might  have  spoken  at  twelve  years 
old  that,  startled  herself,  she  laughed,  and  Denny,  with  a 
catch  in  his  voice,  laughed  too.  "Oh,"  she  cried  with  some 
thing  like  a  sob,  "sixteen  years  to  slip  from  one  like  that!" 
She  held  out  a  small  purple  shell.  "This  is  yours,  Denny 


HAGAR   AND  DENNY  289 

Gayde.  .  .  .  And  I've  thought  of  you  often,  and  wished  you 
well.  If  I  did  you,  unknowing,  a  service,  so  you,  unknowing, 
have  done  me  a  service,  too.  That  summer  morning,  long 
ago  —  it  shocked  me  awake.  The  world  since  then  has  been 
different  always,  more  pitiful  and  nearer.  Here's  your  shell. 
It  won't  hold  my  gratitude  and  well-wishing  either." 

They  passed  out  between  the  coral  and  the  sea-fans, 
entered  the  surrey,  and  it  drove  on.  Now  they  were  back  by 
the  sea.  The  tide  was  far  out,  the  expanse  of  shallows  vaster. 
The  salt  pools  had  been  fired  by  the  torch  of  the  sky;  they  lay 
in  reds  and  purples,  wonderful.  The  smell  of  the  sea  impreg 
nated  the  air  and  there  blew  a  whispering  wind.  The  town 
began  to  appear,  straggling  out  to  meet  them,  low  chimney- 
less  houses  of  the  poorer  sort.  Men  and  women  were  out  in 
the  twilight,  and  children  calling  to  one  another  and  playing. 
The  vivid  lights  had  faded  from  sky  and  from  wet  sand  and 
rock,  shoal  and  lagoon,  but  colour  was  left,  though  it  was  the 
ghost  of  itself.  It  swam  in  the  air,  it  gleamed  from  the  earth. 
Warmth  was  there,  too,  and  languor,  and  the  melancholy  of 
the  gathering  night.  A  dreamlike  quality  came  into  things  — 
the  children's  voices  sounded  faint  and  far;  only  there  were 
waves  of  some  faint  odour,  coming  now  it  seemed  from  gar 
dens.  .  .  .  Now  they  were  in  the  town  and  the  sea  was  shut 
away. 

"One  half  of  my  fairy  month  is  gone." 
"You  are  sleeping  better?" 

"Yes  —  much  better.  .  .  .  Where  shall  we  go  to-morrow?" 
"Leave  it  to  to-morrow.  Look  at  the  star  ...  oh,  beauty! " 
When  to-morrow  was  here  they  walked  inland  to  Fort  Fin- 
castle,  and  then  to  the  Queen's  Staircase.    Negro  children 


290  HAGAR 

raced  after  them  with  some  sweet-smelling  yellow  flower  in 
their  hands.  "  Penny,  Boss !  —  Penny,  Boss !  —  Penny,  Boss ! " 
When  they  were  gone,  and  when  two  surreys  filled  with 
white-dressed  hotel  people  vanished  likewise,  they  had  the 
Queen's  Staircase  to  themselves.  Broad-stepped,  cut  in  the 
living  rock,  it  plunged  downward  to  the  green  bottom  of  the 
seventy-foot  deep  ancient  quarry.  Trees  overhung  it  and 
yellow  flowers,  and  there  was  a  rich,  green  light  like  the  bot 
tom  of  the  sea.  Denny  and  Hagar  sat  upon  a  step  a  quarter 
of  the  way  down. 

"I  do  not  know  why,"  said  Denny,  "there  should  be  so 
deadly  a  fear  of  upheaval.  All  growth  comes  with  upheaval  — 
surely  all  spiritual  growth  comes  so.  Growth  by  accretion 
means  little.  Growth  from  within  comes  with  upheaval — what 
you  have  been  transformed  or  discarded.  A  little  higher,  a  lit 
tle  finer  breaks  the  sod  and  grows  forth  so.  The  deadly  fear 
should  be  of  down-sinking  —  from  the  stagnant  grow-no- 
farther-than-our-fathers-grew  down  —  down.  ...  Of  course, 
the  Woman  Movement  means  upheaval  and  great  upheaval 
—  but  that  is  a  poor  reason  for  condemnation.  ...  As  far  as 
its  political  aspect  is  concerned,  most  open-minded  men,  So 
cialists  and  others,  with  whom  I  come  into  contact,  admit 
the  right  and  the  need.  Unless  a  man  is  very  stupid  he  can 
see  what  a  farce  it  is  to  talk  of  a  democracy  —  government 
of  the  people,  for  the  people,  by  the  people  —  when  one  out 
of  every  two  human  beings  is  notoriously  living  under  an 
aristocracy.  And,  of  course,  we  who  want  an  associative 
gain  of  livelihood,  no  less  than  an  associative  form  of  gov 
ernment,  stand  for  her  equality  there.  .  .  .  But  to  me  there 
is  something  other  than  all  that  in  this  upheaval.  I  cannot 


HAGAR   AND   DENNY  291 

express  it.  I  do  not  know  what  it  is,  unless  it  is  some  faint, 
supernal  promise.  ...  It  is  as  though  the  Spirit  were  again 
working  upon  the  face  of  the  waters."  He  paused,  gazing 
upward  at  the  sky  above  the  wall  of  rock.  "We  are  in  for  a 
deep  change." 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  A  lift  of  mind  and  a  change  of  heart,  on 
which  to  base  a  chance  for  a  deep  change,  indeed.  A  richer, 
deeper  life.  .  .  .  Oh,  there  will  be  dross  enough  for  a  time, 
tares,  detritus,  heat  and  dust  and  wounds  of  conflict,  Babel, 
cries  and  counter-cries!  and  some  will  think  they  lose.  ..." 

"They'll  only  think  so  for  a  while.  Nothing  can  be  lost." 

"No  —  only  transmuted.  .  .  .  But  I  hate  the  tumult  and 
the  shouting  while  the  people  are  yet  bewildered.  If  that's 
the  Brahmin  in  me,  I  am  going  to  sacrifice  him.  I  am  going 
where  the  battle  is." 

"I  do  not  doubt  that." 

More  white-suited  people  appeared,  at  their  heels  the 
black  children.  "Penny,  Boss!  —  Penny,  Boss!  —  Penny, 
Boss!"  Hagar  and  Denny  rose  and  walked  back  to  town 
through  the  warm,  fragrant  ways.  He  left  her  at  Greer's  stu 
dio —  she  had  promised  to  come  look  at  the  portrait.  As  they 
stood  a  moment  in  the  verandah,  Medway's  golden  drawl  was 
heard  from  within.  "Well,  I  Ve  known  a  good  many  philoso 
phers  —  but  none  that  were  irreducible.  Every  heroic,  every 
transcendental  treads  at  last  the  same  pavement.  'I  love 
and  seek  the  street  called  pleasure.  I  abhor  and  avoid  the 
street  called  pain.'  Therefore  the  summum  bonum  — "  The 
door  opened  to  Hagar.  She  smiled  and  waved  her  hand,  and 
the  studio  swallowed  her  up. 

Some  days  after  this  they  drove  one  afternoon  over  the 


292  HAGAR 

Blue  Hills  to  the  southern  beach.  Long  white  road  —  long 
white  road  —  and  on  either  hand  pine  and  scrub,  pine  and 
scrub,  and  over  all  a  vault  of  sky  achingly  blue.  It  was  a 
lonely  road,  a  road  untravelled  to-day,  and  the  wind  shook 
in  the  palmetto  scrub.  Small  grey  birds  flitted  before  them, 
or  cheeped  from  the  tangled  wood.  It  was  a  day  for  silence  and 
they  stayed  silent  so  long  that  the  negro  driving,  who  was 
afraid  of  silence,  broke  it  himself.  He  told  them  about  things, 
and  when  they  awoke  and  genially  answered,  he  was  happy 
and  talked  on  to  himself  until  they,  too,  were  talking,  when 
he  lapsed  into  silence  and  contentment.  The  wind  blew,  the 
scrub  rustled,  the  sky  was  sapphire  —  oh,  sapphire! 

When  they  came  after  a  good  while  to  the  South  Beach, 
they  left  the  surrey  and  the  horse  and  the  driver,  in  the 
shade  of  the  trees  that  fringed  the  beach,  and  walked  slowly 
a  long  way,  over  the  firm  sand.  It  stretched,  a  silver  shore; 
the  sun  was  westering,  the  great  sea  making  a  hoarse,  pro 
found  murmur.  They  walked  in  silence,  thinking  their  own 
thoughts.  Before  them,  half-sunken  in  the  sand,  lay  an 
old  boat.  When  they  came  to  it,  they  sat  down  upon  its 
shattered,  sun-dried  boards,  with  the  sand  at  their  feet  and 
the  grave  evening  light  stealing  up  and  Mother  Ocean  speak 
ing,  speaking 

"In  the  last  analysis  it  is,"  said  Hagar,  "a  metaphysical 
adventure  —  a  love-quest  if  you  will.  There  is  a  passion  of 
the  mind,  there  is  the  questing  soul,  there  is  the  desire  that 
will  have  union  with  nothing  less  than  the  whole.  I  will  think 
freely,  and  largely,  and  doing  that,  under  pain  of  being  false, 
I  must  act  freely  and  largely,  live  freely  and  largely.  Nor 
must  I  think  one  thing  and  speak  another,  nor  must  I  be 


HAGAR  AND   DENNY  293 

silent  when  silence  betrays  the  whole.  .  .  .  And  so  woman  no 
less  than  man  comes  into  the  open." 

"There  is  something  that  broods  in  this  time,"  said  Denny. 
"I  do  not  know  what  it  will  hatch.  But  something  vaster, 
something  nobler ..." 

Hagar  let  the  warm  sand  stream  through  her  fingers.  "Oh, 
how  blue  is  the  sea.  .  .  .  ^Eons  and  seons  and  aeons  ago,  when 
slowly,  slowly  life  drew  itself  forth  from  such  a  sea  as  this 
into  upper  air  —  when  Amphibian  began  to  know  two  ele 
ments,  how  much  richer  was  life  for  Amphibian,  how  great 
was  the  gain! .  .  .  When,  after  seons  and  aeons,  there  was  all 
manner  of  warm-blooded  life  in  woods  like  these  behind  us, 
or  in  richer  woods  .  .  .  and  one  day,  dimly,  dimly,  some  pri 
mate  thought,  and  her  children  and  grandchildren  a  little, 
little  more  consciously  thought,  and  it  spread.  ...  To  that 
tribe  how  strange  a  dawn !  '  We  are  growing  away  from  the 
four-footed  —  we  are  growing  away  from  our  sister  the  gib 
bon  and  our  brother  the  chimpanzee  —  we  are  growing  — 
we  are  changing  —  we  feel  the  heavens  over  us  and  a  strange 
new  life  within  us  —  we  are  passing  out,  we  are  coming  in  — 
we  need  a  new  word.  .  .  .  '  And  at  last  they  called  themselves 
human  —  aeons  ago.  ..." 

"And  now?" 

"And  now,  on  the  human  plane,  it  seems  to  me  that  we 
may  be  immediately  above  that  region."  She  took  a  pointed 
piece  of  driftwood  and  drew  upon  the  sand.  "Here  is  the 
human  plane  —  and  here  above  it  is  another  plane."  She 
drew  a  diagonal  line  between.  "And  that  is  a  stairway  of 
growth  from  one  to  the  other.  And  we  are  turning  from  this 
plane  —  the  lower  plane  —  and  coming  upon  that  stairway, 


294  HAGAR 

and  down  it,  to  meet  us,  pours  like  a  morning  wind,  like  the 
first  light  in  the  sky,  a  hint  of  what  may  be.  Like  that  ances 
tral  tribe,  we  are  growing,  we  are  changing  —  we  feel  a 
strange  new  life  within  us  —  we  are  passing  out,  we  are  com 
ing  in  —  we  need  a  new  word." 

"What  would  it  be?" 

"I  do  not  know.  .  .  .  After  a  while,  an  age  hence  maybe, 
when  the  light  is  stronger,  we  will  coin  it.  Now  there  is  only 
intuition  of  the  change.  .  .  .  There  is  something  in  a  transla 
tion  I  was  reading  of  one  of  the  Upanishads,  'But  he  who  dis 
cerns  all  creatures  in  his  Self  and  his  Self  in  all  creatures,  has 
no  disquiet.  .  .  .  What  delusion,  what  grief  can  be  with  him 
in  whom  all  creatures  have  become  the  very  self  of  the 
thinker,  discerning  their  oneness? .  .  .  He  has  spread  around 
a  thing,  bright,  bodiless,  taking  no  hurt,  sinewless,  pure,  un- 
smitten  by  evil '  .  .  .  That  might  come  after  a  long,  long 
time,  after  change  upon  change." 

The  great  sea  murmured  on,  a  wild  white  bird  flew  across 
the  round  of  vision,  melted  into  the  sunset. 

"And  each  change  is  greater  by  geometrical  progression 
than  was  the  one  before  ? " 

"Not  the  change  itself,  but  that  into  which  the  change 
leads  us.  Each  time  we  depart  at  right  angles.  .  .  .  Yes,  I 
think  so." 

"And  the  movement  of  women  toward  freedom  of  field  and 
toward  self-recognition  —  no  less  than  the  general  move 
ment  toward  socialization  —  is  part  of  the  change?" 

"All  things  are  part  of  it.  ...  Yes,  it  is  part." 

She  rose  from  the  sand.  "The  sun  is  setting."  They 
walked  back  to  the  surrey  and  took  the  homeward  road.  As 


HAGAR  AND   DENNY  295 

they  came  over  the  Blue  Hills  it  was  first  dusk;  the  town  lay, 
grey-pearl,  before  them,  and  above  it  swam  the  moon,  full 
and  opaline.  "How  many  days  have  you  now?" 

"Just  seven." 

"Have  you  heard  from  Rose  Darragh?" 

"Yes.  She  's  been  doing  her  work  and  mine,  too.  She  begs 
me  to  stay  another  two  weeks,  but  I  must  not.  There  is  no 
need  —  I  am  perfectly  well  again  —  it  would  only  be  selfish 
enjoyment." 

"I  wish  it  were  possible —  but  if  it's  not,  it's  not.  .  .  .  Oh, 
how  large  the  moon  is!  You  can  almost  see  it  a  globe  —  it  is 
like  a  beautiful,  lighted  Japanese  lantern." 

"Where  will  we  go  to-morrow  afternoon?" 

"We  cannot  go  anywhere  to-morrow  afternoon,  for,  alas! 
I  have  to  go  to  a  garden-party  at  Government  House.  But 
the  next  day  we  might  go  to  Old  Fort.  What  is  that  fragrance 
—  those  strange  lilies?  Look  now  at  the  Japanese  lantern!" 

They  went  to  Old  Fort  and  came  back  in  the  warm  even 
ing  light,  driving  close  to  the  sounding  sea.  "  Five  days  now," 
said  Denny.  "Well,  I  have  been  so  happy." 

That  night  Hagar  could  not  sleep.  She  rose  at  last  from 
the  bed  and  paced  her  moon-flooded  room.  All  the  long 
windows  were  wide;  the  night  air  came  in  and  brought  a 
sighing  of  the  trees.  After  a  while  she  stepped  out  upon  the 
gallery  that  ran  along  the  face  of  the  house.  Medway's  room 
was  down  stairs  and  away  from  this  front;  she  had  the  long 
silvered  pathway  to  herself.  She  paced  it  slowly,  up  and 
down,  wooing  calm.  Each  time  she  reached  the  end  of  the 
gallery,  she  paused  a  moment  and  looked  across  the  sleeping 
town  that  lay  for  the  most  part  below  this  house  and  garden. 


296  HAGAR 

to  where  she  could  guess  the  roof  of  the  small,  inexpensive, 
half  hotel,  half  boarding-house  where  Denny  bided.  When 
after  a  time  she  discovered  that  she  was  doing  this,  she  shook 
herself  away  from  the  action.  "No,  Hagar,  no!" 

Going  to  the  other  end  of  the  gallery,  she  found  there  a 
low  chair  and  sat  down,  leaning  her  head  against  the  railing. 
It  was  the  middle  of  the  night.  Something  in  the  place  and 
in  the  balm  of  the  air  brought  back  to  her  those  days  and 
nights  in  Alexandria,  so  long  ago.  There,  too,  she  had  had  to 
make  choice.  ..."  I  could  love  him  here  and  now  —  love 
him  —  love  him  in  the  old  immemorial  way.  .  .  .  Well,  I  will 
not!"  She  put  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin  in  her  hands. 
"Rose  Darragh  —  Rose  Darragh  —  Rose  Darragh"  —  it 
struck  through  her  mind,  slow  and  heavily  vibrant,  like  a 
deep  and  melancholy  music.  She  rose  and  paced  the  gallery 
again,  but  when  she  came  to  the  farther  end,  she  turned 
without  pause  or  look  over  the  moonlit  town. 

"Rose  Darragh  —  Rose  Darragh"  —  she  made  it  rhythmic, 
breathing  deeply  and  quietly,  saying  the  name  inwardly, 
deeply,  but  without  passion  now,  saying  it  like  a  comrade's 
name.  "Rose  Darragh  —  Rose  Darragh  —  Rose  Darragh  — " 

Calm  came  at  last,  repose  of  mind,  victory.  She  sat  down 
again,  leaned  her  arms  upon  the  railing,  and  followed  with 
her  eyes  the  lonely,  silver  moon.  Work  was  in  the  world,  the 
all-friend  Work;  and  Beauty  was  in  the  world,  the  all-friend 
Beauty;  and  one  good  put  out  of  reach,  mind  and  spirit  must 
make  another  and  were  equal  to  the  task.  "  Rose  Darragh  — 
Rose  Darragh!  —  not  if  I  could  would  I  hurt  you,"  said 
Hagar;  and  took  her  attention  from  that  matter  and  put  it 
first  upon  the  stars,  and  then  upon  some  lines  of  Shelley's 


HAGAR  AND   DENNY  297 

that  she  loved,  and  then  upon  the  story  she  had  in  hand.  It 
was  not  well  to  go  to  bed  thinking  of  a  story,  and  when  at 
last  she  left  the  gallery  and  laid  herself  straight  upon  the 
cool  linen,  she  stilled  the  waves  of  the  mind-stuff  and  let  the 
barque  of  attention  drift  whither  it  would.  At  last  she 
seemed  in  a  deep  forest  long  ago  and  far  away,  and  there  she 
went  to  sleep  with  a  feeling  of  violets  under  her  hand. 

Five  days,  and  Denny  left  Nassau.  "  It  ?s  not  saying  good 
bye.  In  May,  when  you  come  to  New  York  — " 

"Yes,  in  May  I'll  see  you  and  Rose  Darragh.  Until  May, 
then—" 

Denny  and  she  clasped  hands,  both  hands.  "Thank  God 
for  friends!"  he  said  with  the  odd  little  laugh  that  she  liked, 
with  the  catch  in  the  voice  at  the  end  of  it  as  though  he  had 
started  to  laugh  and  then  Life  had  come  in.  His  eyes  were 
misty.  He  brushed  his  hand  across  them.  "  You  are  dancing 
1  efore  me,"  he  said  apologetically. 

She  laughed  herself.  "And  you  are  dancing  before  me! 
Good-bye,  good-bye,  Denny  Gayde !  Let 's  be  friends  always." 

From  the  garden  she  watched  the  Miami  steam  slowly 
down  the  narrow  harbour,  and,  passing  the  lighthouse,  turn 
to  the  open  sea.  She  watched  it  until  it  was  but  a  black 
speck  with  a  dark  feather  of  smoke,  and  then  until  the  feather 
and  all  had  melted  into  the  sky.  "Well,"  she  said,  "there's 
work  and  beauty  and  high  cheer,  and  Time  that  smooths 
away  most  violences!" 

But  she  did  not  see  Denny  and  Rose  Darragh  in  May.  That 
evening  at  dinner  Medway  was  more  than  usually  good  com 
pany.  He  had  a  high  colour;  his  hair  and  curling  beard  had 


298  HAGAR 

been  cut  just  the  length  that  was  most  becoming;  he  looked 
superbly  handsome.  Often  he  affected  Hagar  as  would  a  very 
fine  canvas,  some  portrait  by  Titian.  To-night  was  one  of 
these  nights. 

Greer  dined  with  them,  and  he  was  urging  Medway  as  he 
had  urged  before  to  let  him  paint  him.  "Fortune  's  smiling 
on  us  both  —  on  you  as  well  as  me.  Neither  of  us  may  have 
such  a  chance  again!  Let  me  —  ah,  let  me!" 

"What  should  I  do  with  it  when  it  was  done,  and  if  I  liked 
it  —  which  you  know,  Greer,  is  not  dead  certain  ?  You  can't 
hang  portraits  in  a  nomad's  tent,  and  I  haven't  a  soul  in  the 
world  to  give  it  to,  —  my  mother  would  like  a  coloured 
photograph  of  me,  but  she  wouldn't  like  Greer's  picture,  — 
unless  Gipsy  will  take  it  when  she  sets  up  her  own  establish 
ment—" 

"I  will  take  it  with  thanks,"  said  Hagar.  "Let  Mr.  Greer 
do  it." 

Medway  said  he  would  consider  it.  Dinner  went  off  gaily 
with  stories  and  badinage.  Afterwards  the  traveller  from 
the  Colonial  came  in,  and  then  the  violinist.  He  played  for 
them  —  played  rhapsodies  and  fantasias.  It  was  after  eleven 
when  the  three  guests  departed.  Greer's  gay  voice  could  be 
heard  down  the  street  — 

"  '  A  Saint-Blaise,  a  la  Zuecca, 
Vous  etiez,  vous  etiez  bien  aise 

A  Saint-Blaise. 
A  Saint  Blaise,  a  la  Zuecca 
Nous  etions  bien  la  — '" 

Thomson  appeared,  with  Mahomet  behind  him  to  put  out 
the  lights. 


HAGAR  AND   DENNY  299 

"Good-night  —  sleep  right!"  said  Medway.  "Pleasant 
fellows,  are  n't  they?" 

Toward  daylight  she  was  awakened  by  a  knock  at  her  door, 
followed  by  Thomson's  voice.  "Mr.  Ashendyne  has  had 
some  kind  of  a  stroke,  Miss  Hagar — "  She  sprang  up, 
threw  on  a  kimono,  opened  the  door,  and  ran  downstairs 
with  Thomson.  "I  heard  him  breathing  heavily  —  I've 
waked  Mahomet  and  sent  the  black  boy  for  the  doctor — " 

It  was  paralysis.  And  after  months  of  Nassau,  she  took 
him  back  to  the  mainland  and  northward  by  slow  stages, 
not  to  Gilead  Balm,  for  he  made  always  "No!"  with  his  head 
and  eyes  to  that,  and  not  to  New  York  for  he  seemed  im 
patient  of  that,  too;  but  at  last  to  Washington.  There  she 
and  Thomson  found  a  pleasant  residence  to  let  on  a  tree- 
embowered  avenue,  and  there  they  moved  him,  and  there 
she  stayed  with  him  two  years  and  read  a  vast  number  of 
books  aloud,  and  between  the  readings  cultivated  a  sunny 
talkativeness.  At  the  end  of  the  two  years  there  came  a 
second  stroke  which  killed  him. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

GILEAD    BALM 

IT  's  a  foolish  piece  of  idealism,"  said  Ralph.  "But  she 'shad 
her  way  so  long  I  suppose  it 's  impossible  now  to  check  her." 

The  Colonel's  irritation  exploded.  White-haired,  hawk- 
nosed  and  eyed,  a  little  stooped  now,  a  good  deal  shrunken 
in  his  black,  old-fashioned,  aristocratic  clothes,  he  lifted  a 
bloodless  hand  and  made  emphasis  with  a  long  forefinger. 
"Precisely  so!  One  world  mistake  lay  in  ever  giving  property 
unqualifiedly  into  a  woman's  hands,  and  another  in  ever  en 
couraging  occupations  outside  the  household,  and  so  breed 
ing  this  independent  attitude  —  an  attitude  which  I  for  one 
find  the  most  intolerable  feature  of  this  intolerable  latter  age! 
I  opposed  the  Married  Woman's  Property  Act  in  this  state, 
but  the  people  were  infatuated  and  passed  it.  Married  or 
single,  the  principle  is  the  same.  It  is  folly  to  give  woman 
control  of  any  considerable  sum  of  money  — " 

Mrs.  LeGrand,  entering  the  Gilead  Balm  library,  caught 
the  last  three  sentences.  She  smiled  on  the  two  gentlemen 
and  took  her  seat  upon  the  sofa.  "Money  and  women  are 
you  talking  about?  Where  money  comes  in,"  said  Mrs. 
LeGrand,  "I  always  act  under  advice.  Women  know  very 
little  about  finance,  and  their  judgment  is  rarely  to  be 
trusted." 

"Just  so,  my  dear  friend!  It  is  not  in  the  least,"  spoke  the 
Colonel,  "that  I  am  acquisitive  or  that  it  will  make  any 


GILEAD   BALM  301 

great  difference  to  me  personally  if  Medway's  wealth  stays 
in  the  family  or  no.  What  I  am  commenting  upon  is  the 
folly  of  giving  a  woman  power  to  do  so  foolish  a  thing." 

"Hagar  always  could  do  foolish  things,"  said  Miss  Serena, 
looking  up  from  her  Mexican  drawnwork. 

"I  don't  quite  understand  yet/'  said  Mrs.  LeGrand. 
"Mrs.  Ashendyne  was  telling  me  in  the  big  room  yesterday 
evening,  and  then  some  one  came  in  —  dear  Medway's  will 
left  her  without  proviso  all  that  he  had  — " 

"As  was  quite  proper,"  said  Ralph,  "the  Colonel  to  the 
contrary.  Well,  the  principal  comes  to  considerably  over  a 
million  dollars  —  the  cool  million  his  second  wife  left  him  by 
her  will  and  the  settlement  she  had  already  made  upon  their 
marriage.  The  investment  is  gilt-edged.  Altogether  it 
would  make  Hagar  not  an  extremely  rich  woman  as  riches 
are  counted  nowadays,  but  —  yes,  certainly  for  the  South  — 
a  very  rich  woman.  But  now  comes  in  your  feminine  tender 
conscience  — " 

"Hagar  refuses  to  put  on  black,"  said  Miss  Serena.  "I 
don't  see  that  she's  got  a  tender  conscience — " 

"The  entire  amount  —  everything  that  came  from  the 
fortune  —  she  turns  back  to  the  fund  which  the  second  wife 
established  for  workingmen's  housing.  She  states  that  she 
agrees  with  her  stepmother's  views  as  to  how  the  fortune 
was  made,  and  that  she  does  not  care  to  be  a  beneficiary. 
She  says  that  her  stepmother  had  evidently  given  thought  to 
the  matter  and  preferred  that  form  of  "restitution"  and  that 
her  only  duty  is  simply  to  return  this  million  and  more  to 
the  fund  already  erected,  and  from  which  it  was  diverted  for 
Cousin  Medway's  benefit." 


302  HAGAR 

"Duty!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  LeGrand.  "I  don't  see  where 
'duty'  comes  in.  Her  'duty'  is  to  see  that  her  father  was 
wise  for  her.  If  he  was  content  there 's  surely  no  reason  why 
she  should  not  be  so!" 

"Hagar,"  said  Miss  Serena,  "never  could  see  proper  dis 
tinctions  between  people.  I  don't  see  that  working-people 
are  housed  so  badly  — " 

Ralph  laughed  mirthlessly.  "Yes,  they  are,  Cousin  Serena! 
Scarcely  any  of  them  have  tiled  bathrooms  and  the  best  type 
of  porcelain-lined  tub,  and  very  few  have  libraries  that'll 
accommodate  more  than  a  thousand  volumes,  and  quite  a 
number  do  without  nurseries  papered  with  scenes  from 
Mother  Goose.  And  as  they're  all  for  that  kind  of  housing, 
they  're  preparing  to  move  in  —  just  a  little  preliminary  oust 
ing  of  a  few  people  with  more  brains  and  money  and  in  they 
go!  —  cuckoos  laying  their  eggs  in  abler  folks'  nests!  This 
is  the  age  of  the  cuckoo." 

"How  absurd,"  said  Miss  Serena.  "Gilead  Balm  has  n't 
a  tiled  bathroom,  nor  an  extremely  large  library,  and  when 
I  was  a  child  the  nursery  wasn't  papered  at  all.  But  we  are 
perfectly  comfortable  at  Gilead  Balm.  It's  a  heinous  sin  — 
discontent  with  your  lot  in  life." 

"Do  you  mean,"  asked  Mrs.  LeGrand,  "that,  against  your 
counsel  and  advice,  Hagar  is  really  going  headstrongly  on 
to  do  this  silly  thing?" 

"Apparently  so.  She  is,"  said  the  Colonel,  "of  age.  There 
again  was  a  mistake  —  to  let  women  come  of  age.  Perpetual 


minors  — " 


Mrs.  LeGrand  laughed.   "Colonel,  you  are  not  very  gal 
lant!" 


GILEAD  BALM  303 

The  Colonel  turned  to  her.  "Oh,  my  dear  friend,  you  're 
not  the  modern,  unwomanly  type  that  professes  to  see  some 
thing  degrading  in  the  subordination  that  God  and  Nature 
have  decreed  for  woman!  Gallant!  That's  just  what  I  am. 
Knights  and  gallantry  were  for  the  type  that 's  vanishing, 
though"  —  he  bowed  to  Mrs.  LeGrand,  who  had  not  a  little 
of  her  old  beauty  left  —  "though  here  and  there  is  left  a 
shining  example!" 

Mrs.  LeGrand  used  her  fan.  "Oh,  Colonel,  there  are  many 
of  us  who  like  the  old  ways  best." 

Ralph  drummed  with  his  fingers  upon  the  table.  "To 
come  back  to  Hagar  — " 

Hagar  herself  entered  the  room. 

She  was  dressed  in  white;  she  was  a  little  thin  and  pale, 
for  the  last  weeks  had  been  trying  ones.  Habitually  she  had 
a  glancing  way  of  ranging  from  an  appearance  of  youth  al 
most  girlish  to  a  noble  look  of  young  maturity.  To-day  she 
looked  her  thirty-one  years,  but  looked  them  regally. 

Once  the  Colonel  would  not  have  hesitated  to  hector  her, 
Miss  Serena  peevishly  to  blame  what  she  could  not  under 
stand,  Mrs.  LeGrand  to  attempt  smoothly  to  put  her  down. 
All  that  seemed  impossible  now.  There  was  about  her  the 
glamour  of  successful  work,  of  a  known  person.  Mrs.  Le 
Grand  had  recently  purchased  a  "Who's  Who,"  and  had 
found  her  there.  Ashendyne,  Hagar,  author;  b.  Gilead  Balm, 
in  Virginia,  and  so  on.  From  various  chronicles  of  the  realm 
of  contemporary  literature  she  had  gathered  that  Hagar's 
name  would  be  found  in  yet  more  exclusive  lists  than  "Who's 
Who."  Of  course,  all  in  the  room  had  read  much  of  what  she 
had  written,  and  equally,  of  course,  each  of  the  four  had,  for 


304  HAGAR 

temperamental  reasons,  spokenly  or  unspokenly  depreciated 
it.  But  all  knew  that  she  had  —  though  they  could  not  see 
the  justice  of  her  having  —  that  standing  in  the  world.  Mrs. 
LeGrand  always,  with  patrons,  smoothly  brought  it  in  that 
she  had  been  a  pupil  at  Eglantine.  None  of  them  knew  how 
much  she  made  by  her  writing;  it  was  to  be  supposed  it  was 
something,  seeing  that  she  was  coolly  throwing  away  a  mil 
lion  dollars.  There  was  likewise  the  glamour  of  much  ab 
sence  in  foreign  lands;  the  undefined  feeling  that  here  were 
novelties  of  experience  and  adventure,  ground  with  which  she 
was  familiar  and  they  were  not.  Of  experience  and  adven 
ture  in  psychical  lands  they  took  no  account.  But  it  was  un 
deniable  that  her  knowing  Europe  and  Asia  and  Africa  added 
to  the  already  considerable  difficulty  in  properly  expressing 
to  Hagar  how  criminally  foolish  she  was  being.  Added  to 
that,  there  was  something  in  herself  that  prevented  it. 

Ralph  spoke  first.  "We  were  talking,  Hagar,  about  your 
idea  of  what  to  do  with  Cousin  Medway's  money.  Here  are 
only  kinspeople  and  old  friends,  and  we  all  wish  that  you 
would  n't  do  it,  and  think  that  there'll  come  a  day  when 
you'll  be  sorry  — " 

The  Colonel,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  stroked  his  white 
imperial.  "I  should  never  have  said,  Gipsy,  that  you  were 
the  sentimental,  beggar-tending  kind  — " 

Hagar's  kindly  eyes  that  had  travelled  from  her  cousin  to 
her  grandfather,  now  went  on  to  Mrs.  LeGrand.  "And  you  ? " 
they  seemed  to  say. 

"Why  couldn't  you,"  said  Mrs.  LeGrand,  "do  both? 
Why  couldn't  you  give  a  handsome  donation  —  give  a  really 
large  amount  to  this  charity?  And  then  why  not  feel  that 


GILEAD   BALM  305 

you  had,  so  to  speak,  the  rest  in  trust,  and  give  liberally,  so 
much  a  year,  to  all  kinds  of  worthy  enterprises  ?  I  don't  be 
lieve  the  most  benevolent  heart  could  find  anything  to  com 
plain  of  in  that — " 

Hagar's  eyes  went  to  Miss  Serena. 

"You  ought  to  take  advice,"  said  Miss  Serena.  "How  can 
you  know  that  your  judgment  is  good?" 

Hagar  gave  her  eyes  to  all  in  company.  "It  is  right  that 
you  should  say  what  you  think.  We  are  all  too  bound  to 
gether  for  one  not  to  be  ready  to  listen  and  give  weight  to 
what  the  others  think.  But  having  done  it,  our  own  judg 
ment  has  to  determine  at  last,  has  n't  it?  It  seems  to  me  that 
it  is  right  to  do  what  I  am  doing  —  what  I  have  done,  for  it 
is  practically  accomplished.  I  saw  all  necessary  lawyers  and 
people  last  week  in  New  York.  Of  course,  I  hope  that  you  '11 
come  to  see  it  as  I  do,  but  if  you  do  not,  still  I  '11  hope  that 
you'll  believe  that  I  am  right  in  doing  what  I  hold  to  be 
right.  And  now  don't  let 's  talk  of  that  any  more." 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  said  Miss  Serena,  "is  how  you're 
going  to  live,  if  you  don't  take  your  dead  father's  support  — " 

Hagar  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "Live?  Why,  live  as  I 
have  lived  for  years  —  upon  what  I  earn." 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  could  do  that.  —  What  do  you 
earn?" 

"It  depends.  Some  years  more,  some  years  less.  I  have 
published  a  good  deal  and  there  is  a  continuing  sale.  Eng 
land  and  America  together,  I  am  good  for  something  more 
than  ten  thousand  a  year." 

Miss  Serena  stared  at  her.  A  film  seemed  to  come  over  her 
eyes,  the  muscles  of  her  face  slightly  worked.  "Somewhere 


306  HAGAR 

about  thirty  years  ago,"  she  said  painfully,  "I  thought  I'd 
write  a  book.  I  'd  thought  of  a  pretty  story.  I  wrote  to  a 
printing  and  publishing  company  in  Richmond  about  it, 
but  they  wrote  back  that  I'd  have  to  pay  to  have  it 
printed." 

That  night  in  her  bedroom,  plethoric  with  small  products 
of  needle,  crochet-needle,  and  paint-box,  Miss  Serena  drew 
down  the  shades  of  all  four  windows  preparatory  to  undress 
ing.  She  was  upstairs,  there  was  a  thick  screen  of  cedars  and 
no  house  or  hill  or  person  who  could  possibly  command  her 
windows,  but  she  would  have  been  horribly  uneasy  with  un 
drawn  shades.  Ready  for  bed,  she  always  blew  out  the  lamp 
before  she  again  bared  the  windows. 

Some  one  knocked  at  the  door.  "Who  is  it?"  called  Miss 
Serena,  her  hand  upon  her  dress-waist. 

"It'sHagar.   May  I  come  in?" 

It  seemed  that  Hagar  just  wanted  to  talk.  And  she  talked, 
with  charm,  of  twenty  things.  Mostly  of  happenings  about 
the  old  place.  She  asked  about  the  latest  panel  of  garden 
lilies  and  cat-tails,  and  she  took  the  wonderfully  embroidered 
pincushion  from  the  bureau  and  admired  it.  "I  think  that 
I  'm  going  to  have  an  apartment  in  New  York  this  winter, 
and  if  I  do,  won't  you  make  me  a  pincushion?  And,  Aunt 
Serena,  you  must  come  sometimes  to  see  me." 

"You  '11  be  marrying.   You  ought  to  marry  Ralph." 

"Even  so,  you  could  come  to  see  me,  couldn't  you?  But  I 
am  not  going  to  marry  Ralph." 

Miss  Serena  stiffened.  "The  whole  family  wants  you  to  —  " 
She  was  upon  family  authority,  and  the  wooing  had  to  be 
done  all  over  again.  .  .  . 


GILEAD   BALM  307 

"I  saw  Thomasine  in  New  York.  She 's  going  to  live  with 
me  as  my  secretary.  You  know  that  she  has  been  a  type 
writer  and  stenographer  for  a  long  time,  and  they  say  she 
is  an  excellent  one.  She  has  been  studying,  too,  other  things 
at  night,  after  her  long  hours.  She  is  as  pretty  and  sweet 
as  ever.  When  you  come,  the  three  of  us  will  do  wonderful 
things  together — " 

Miss  Serena's  bosom  swelled.  "I  wonder  when  Ashen- 
dynes  and  Dales  and  Greens  began  to  'do  things'  —  by  which 
I  suppose  you  mean  going  to  theatres  and  concerts  and 
stores  and  such  things  —  together!  The  bottom  rail's  on 
top  with  a  vengeance  in  these  days!  But  your  mother  be 
fore  you  had  no  sense  of  blood." 

Hagar  sat  silent,  with  a  feeling  of  despair.  Then  she  be 
gan  again,  her  subject  the  flower  garden,  and  then,  at  last  — 
"Aunt  Serena,  tell  me  about  the  story  you  wanted  to 
write.  .  .  ." 

Ralph  —  Ralph  was  too  insistent,  she  thought.  He  found 
her  the  next  morning,  under  the  old  sycamore  by  the  river, 
and  he  proceeded  again  to  be  insistent. 

She  stopped  him  impatiently.  "Ralph,  do  you  wish  still 
to  be  friends,  or  do  you  wish  me  to  put  you  one  side  of  the 
Equator  and  myself  on  the  other?  I  can  do  it." 

"The  Equator's  an  imaginary  line." 

"You'll  find  that  an  imaginary  line  can  change  you  into 
a  stranger." 

"Hagar,  I  'm  used  to  getting  what  I  set  my  heart  and  brain 
upon." 

"So  was  a  gentleman  named  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  He  got 
it  —  up  to  a  certain  limit." 


308  HAGAR 

"I  don't  believe  you  are  in  earnest.  I  don't  believe  you 
have  ever  really  considered  —  And  I  intend  one  day  to  make 
you  see  — " 

"  See  what?  See  my  enormous  advantage  in  marrying  you ? 
Oh,  you  —  man!" 

"See  that  you  love  me." 

"How,  you  mean,  can  I  help  it?  Oh,  you  —  featherless 
biped!" 

Ralph  broke  in  two  the  bit  of  stick  in  his  hands  with  a 
snapping  sound.  "I'm  mad  for  you,  and  I 'd  like  to  pay  you 
out—" 

"You  are  more  remotely  ancestral  than  almost  any  man  I 
know!  —  Come,  come!  let  us  stop  this  and  talk  as  cousins 
and  old  playmates.  There's  Wall  Street  left,  and  who  is 
going  to  be  President,  and  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
Hawk  Nest." 

"What  I  wanted  to  do  with  Hawk  Nest  was  to  fix  it  up  for 
you." 

"Oh,  Ralph,  Ralph!  I  should  laugh  at  you,  but  I  feel  more 
like  crying.  The  pattern  is  so  criss-cross!"  She  rose  from 
beneath  the  sycamore.  "  I  'm  going  back  to  the  house 


now." 


He  walked  beside  her.  "Do  you  remember  once  I  told  you 
I  was  going  to  make  a  great  fortune,  and  you  made  light  of 
it?  Well,  I'm  a  wealthy  man  to-day  and  I  shall  be  a  much 
wealthier  one.  It  grows  now  automatically.  And  that  I 
would  be  powerful.  Well,  I  am  powerful  to-day,  and  that, 
too,  grows. 

"Oh,  Ralph,  I  wish  you  well!  And  if  we  don't  define 
wealth  and  power  alike,  still  your  definition  is  your  definition. 


GILEAD   BALM  309 

And  if  that 's  your  heart's  desire,  and  I  think  it  is,  be  happy 
in  your  heart's  desire  —  until  it  changes,  and  then  be  happier 
in  the  change!" 

"I  have  told  you  what  is  my  heart's  desire." 

"I  will  not  go  back  to  that.  Look!  the  sumach  is  turning 
red." 

"Yes,  it  is  very  pretty.  .  .  .  You  didn't  see  Sylvie  Maine  — 
Sylvie  Carter  —  when  you  were  in  New  York?" 

"No.  I  haven't  seen  Sylvie  since  that  one  first  winter 
there.  I  wrote  to  her  when  I  heard  of  Jack  Carter's  death." 

"That  has  been  three  years  ago  now.  She  is  a  very  beau 
tiful  woman  and  much  sought  after.  I  saw  a  good  deal 
of  her  last  winter.  .  .  .  Yes,  that  sumach  is  getting  red. 
Autumn 's  coming.  .  .  .  Hagar!  I  'm  not  in  the  least  going  to 
give  up." 

"Ralph,  I'm  going  to  advise  you  to  use  your  business 
acumen  and  recognize  an  unprofitable  enterprise  when  you 
see  it.  ...  Look  at  the  painted  ladies  on  that  thistle!" 

"I'm  old-fashioned  enough  to  believe  that  a  man  can 
make  a  woman  love  him  — " 

"Are  you?  Be  so  good  as  to  let  me  know  when  you  suc 
ceed.  —  I  warn  you  that  the  Equator  is  getting  ready  to 
drop  between." 

When  they  passed  the  cedars  and  came  to  the  porch  steps, 
it  was  to  find  Old  Miss  sitting  in  the  large  chair,  her  white- 
stockinged  feet  firmly  planted,  her  key-basket  beside  her, 
and  her  knitting-needles  glinting. 

"Did  you  have  a  pleasant  walk?"  she  asked,  and  looked  at 
them  with  a  certain  massive  eagerness. 

"Ask  Hagar,  ma'am.    She  may  have,"  answered  Ralph; 


310  HAGAR 

and  took  himself  into  the  house.    They  heard  his  rather 
heavy  footfall  upon  the  stair. 

Hagar  sat  down  on  the  porch  step.  "Ralph  has,  doubtless, 
a  great  many  good  qualities,  but  he  is  spoiled." 

Now  Old  Miss  had  a  favourite  project  or  projects,  and  that 
was  matings  between  Coltsworths  and  Ashendynes.  Every 
few  years  for  perhaps  two  centuries  such  matings  had  oc 
curred.  Many  had  occurred  in  her  day.  With  great  intensity 
she  wanted  and  had  wanted  for  years  to  see  a  match  made 
between  her  granddaughter  and  so  promising,  nay,  so  ac 
complishing,  a  Coltsworth  as  Ralph.  She  was  proud  of 
Ralph  —  proud  of  his  appearance,  of  his  ability  to  get  on  in 
the  world  and  make  money  and  restore  Hawk  Nest,  of  his 
judgment  and  knowledge  of  public  affairs  which  seemed  to 
her  extraordinary.  She  wanted  him  to  marry  Hagar,  and 
characteristically  she  refused  to  admit  the  possibility  of  de 
feat.  But  Ralph  was  no  longer  quite  a  young  man  —  he 
ought  to  have  been  married  years  ago.  As  for  Hagar  —  Old 
Miss  loved  her  granddaughter,  but  she  had  very  little  pa 
tience  with  her.  She  was  not  patient  with  women  generally. 
She  thought  that,  on  the  whole,  women  were  a  poor  lot  — 
witness  Maria.  Maria  lived  for  Old  Miss,  lived  on  one  side 
in  space  of  her  own,  core  of  an  atmosphere  of  smouldering, 
dull  resentment.  If  Maria  had  been  different,  Medway 
would  have  lived  at  home.  If  Maria  had  known  her  duty, 
there  would  have  been  a  brood  of  grandchildren  to  match 
with  broods  of  Coltsworths  and  others  of  rank  just  under  the 
first.  If  Maria  had  been  different,  this  one  grandchild 
would  n't  be  throwing  a  million  dollars  away  and  failing  to 
love  her  cousin!  If  Maria  hadn't  been  a  wilful  piece,  Hagar 


GILEAD   BALM  311 

might  have  escaped  being  a  wilful  piece.  Old  Miss  loved  her 
granddaughter,  but  that  was  what  she  was  calling  her  now  in 
her  mind  —  a  wilful  piece. 

Factors  that  counted  with  the  others  at  Gilead  Balm, 
Hagar's  very  actual  detachment  and  independence,  name 
and  prestige  and  personality,  failed  to  count  with  Old  Miss. 

Such  things  counted  in  other  cases;  they  counted  in  Ralph's 
case.  But  Hagar  was  of  the  younger,  therefore  rightfully 
subordinate,  generation,  and  she  was  female.  Ralph  was  of 
the  younger  generation,  also,  and  as  a  boy,  while  Old  Miss 
spoiled  him  when  he  came  to  Gilead  Balm,  she  expected  to 
rule  him,  too.  But  Ralph  had  crossed  the  Rubicon.  As  soon 
as  he  grew  from  young  boy  to  man,  some  mysterious  force 
placed  him  without  trouble  of  his  own  in  the  conquering  su 
perior  class  whose  dicta  must  be  accepted  and  whose  judg 
ment  must  be  deferred  to.  The  halo  appeared  about  his  head. 
He  came  up  equal  with  and  passed  ahead  of  old  Miss,  elder 
generation  to  the  contrary.  But  Hagar  —  Hagar  was  yet  in 
the  class  that  was  young  and  couldn't  know;  she  was  in  the 
class  of  the  "poor  lot."  She  was  a  wilful  piece. 

"I  do  not  see  that  Ralph  is  spoiled,"  said  Old  Miss.  "He 
receives  a  natural  recognition  of  his  ability  and  success  in 
life.  He  is  a  very  successful  man,  a  very  able  man.  He  is 
giving  new  weight  to  the  family  name.  There  was  a  piece  in 
the  paper  the  other  day  that  said  the  state  ought  to  be  proud 
of  Ralph.  I  cut  it  out,"  said  Old  Miss,  "and  put  it  in  my 
scrapbook.  I  '11  show  it  to  you.  You  ought  to  read  it.  I  don't 
see  why  you  are  n't  proud  of  your  cousin." 

"I  hope  I  maybe. — What  are  you  knitting,  grandmother?" 

"Any  woman  might  be  happy  to  have  Ralph  propose  to 


3I2  HAGAR 

her.  And  any  woman  but  your  mother's  daughter  might 
have  some  care  for  family  happiness  and  advantage  — " 

"Oh,  grandmother,  would  my  unhappiness  in  truth  ad 
vantage  the  family?" 

"Unhappiness!  There's  no  need  for  unhappiness.  That 's 
your  mother  again!  Ralph  is  a  splendid  man.  You  ought  to 
feel  flattered.  I  don't  believe  in  marrying  without  love,  cer 
tainly  not  without  respect;  but  when  you  see  it  is  your  duty 
and  make  your  mind  submissive  you  can  manage  easily  enough 
to  feel  both.  That's  the  trouble  with  you  as  it  was  with  your 
mother  before  you.  You  don't  see  your  duty  and  you  don't 
make  your  mind  submissive.  I've  no  patience  with  you." 

"Grandmother,"  said  Hagar,  "did  you  ever  realize  that 
you  yourself  only  make  your  mind  submissive  when  it  comes 
into  relation  with  men,  or  with  ideas  advanced  by  men?  I 
have  never  seen  you  humble-minded  with  a  woman." 

Old  Miss  appeared  to  take  this  as  a  startling  proposition, 
and  to  consider  it  for  a  moment;  then,  "I  don't  know  what 
you  mean." 

"I  mean  that  outraged  nature  must  be  itself  somewhere 

—  else  there's  annihilation." 

Old  Miss's  needles  clicked.  "I  don't  pretend  to  be  'liter 
ary,'  or  to  understand  literary  talk.  What  Moses  and  St. 
Paul  said  and  the  way  we've  always  done  in  Virginia  is  good 
enough  for  me.  You  're  perverse  and  rebellious  as  Maria  was 
before  you.  It 's  simple  obstinacy,  your  not  caring  for  Ralph 

—  and  as  for  throwing  away  Medway's  million  dollars,  there 
ought  to  be  a  law  to  keep  you  from  doing  it!  —  Are  you  going 
upstairs?    My  scrapbook  is  on  the  fourth  shelf  of  the  big 
closet.  Get  it  and  read  that  piece  about  Ralph." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

A   DIFFERENCE    OF    OPINION 

BUT  the  great  Gilead  Balm  explosion  came  three  days  later. 
It  was  nearly  sunset,  and  they  were  all  upon  the  wide,  front 
porch  —  the  Colonel,  Old  Miss,  Miss  Serena,  Captain  Bob, 
Mrs.  LeGrand,  Hagar.  Ralph  was  not  there,  he  had  ridden 
to  Hawk  Nest,  but  would  return  to-night.  It  had  been  a 
beautiful,  early  September  day,  the  sky  high  and  blue,  the 
air  all  sunny  vigour.  Gilead  Balm  sat  and  enjoyed  the  cool, 
golden,  winey  afternoon,  the  shadows  lengthening  over  the 
hills,  the  swallows  overhead,  the  tinkle  of  the  cow-bells.  It 
was  not  one  of  your  families  that  were  always  chattering. 
The  porch  held  rather  silent  than  otherwise.  Mrs.  LeGrand 
could,  indeed,  keep  up  a  smooth,  slow  flow  of  talk,  but  Mrs. 
LeGrand  had  been  packing  to  return  to  Englantine  which 
would  "open"  in  another  week,  and  she  was  somewhat 
fatigued.  The  Colonel,  pending  the  arrival  of  yesterday's 
newspaper,  was  reviewing  that  of  the  day  before  yesterday. 
Captain  Bob  and  Lisa  communed  together.  Old  Miss  knit 
ted.  Miss  Serena  ran  a  strawberry  emery  bag  through  and 
through  with  her  embroidery  needle.  Hagar  had  a  book,  but 
she  was  not  reading.  It  lay  face  down  in  her  lap;  she  was 
hardly  thinking;  she  was  dreaming  with  her  eyes  upon  a  vast 
pearly,  cumulus  cloud,  coming  up  between  the  spires  of  the 
cedars.  A  mulatto  boy  appeared  with  the  mail-bag.  "Ha!" 
said  the  Colonel,  and  stretched  out  his  hand. 


314  HAGAR 

There  was  a  small  table  beside  him.  He  opened  the  bag 
and  turned  the  contents  out  upon  this,  then  began  to  sort 
them.  No  one  —  it  was  a  Gilead  Balm  way  —  claimed  letter 
or  paper  until  the  Colonel  had  made  as  many  little  heaps  as 
there  were  individuals  and  had  placed  every  jot  and  tittle  of 
mail  accruing,  ending  by  shaking  out  the  empty  bag.  He 
did  all  this  to-day.  Captain  Bob  had  only  a  county  paper  — 
no  letters  for  Old  Miss  —  a  good  deal  of  forwarded  mail  for 
Mrs.  LeGrand  —  the  Colonel's  own  —  letters  and  papers 
for  Hagar.  The  Colonel  handled  each  piece,  glanced  at  the 
superscription,  put  it  in  the  proper  heap.  He  shook  out  the 
bag;  then,  gathering  up  Mrs.  LeGrand's  mail,  gave  it  to  her 
with  a  smile  and  a  small  courtly  bow.  Miss  Serena  rose, 
work  in  hand,  and  took  hers  from  the  table.  Lisa  walked 
gravely  up,  then  returned  to  Captain  Bob  with  the  county 
paper  in  her  mouth.  The  Colonel's  shrunken  long  fingers 
took  up  Hagar's  rather  large  amount  and  held  it  out  to  her. 
"Here,  Gipsy"  —  the  last  time  for  many  a  day  that  he  called 
her  Gipsy.  A  letter  slipped  from  the  packet  to  the  floor. 
Bending,  the  Colonel  picked  it  up,  and  in  doing  so  for  the  first 
time  regarded  the  printing  on  the  upper  left-hand  corner  — 

Return  in  five  days  to  the  Equal  Suffrage  League.  The 

envelope  turned  in  his  hand.  On  its  reverse,  across  the  flap, 
was  boldly  stamped  —  VOTES  FOR  WOMEN. 

Colonel  Argall  Ashendyne  straightened  himself  with  a 
jerk.  "Hagar!  —  What  is  that?  How  do  you  happen  to  get 
letters  like  that?  —  Answer!" 

His  granddaughter,  who  had  risen  to  take  her  mail,  re 
garded  first  the  letter  and  then  the  Colonel  with  some  aston 
ishment.  "What  do  you  mean,  grandfather?  The  letter's 


A  DIFFERENCE   OF   OPINION  315 

from  my  friend,  Elizabeth  Eden.  I  wonder  if  you  don't  re 
member  her,  that  summer  long  ago  at  the  New  Springs?" 

The  Colonel's  forefinger  stabbed  the  three  words  on  the 
back  of  the  envelope.  "You  don't  have  friends  and  corre 
spondents  who  are  working  for  that  ?  " 

"Why  not?  I  propose  presently  actively  to  work  for  it 
myself." 

Apoplectic  silence  on  the  part  of  the  Colonel.  The  sud 
denly  arisen  storm  darted  an  electric  feeler  from  one  to  the 
other  upon  the  porch. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  Captain  Bob.  "Some 
thing's  the  matter!" 

Old  Miss,  who  had  not  clearly  caught  the  Colonel's  words, 
yet  felt  the  tension  and  put  in  an  authoritative  foot.  "What 
have  you  done  now,  Hagar?  Who's  been  writing  to  you? 
What  is  it,  Colonel?" 

Ralph,  in  his  riding-clothes,  coming  through  the  hall  from 
the  back  where  he  had  just  dismounted,  felt  the  sultry  hush. 
"What's  happened?  What's  the  matter,  Hagar?" 

"Get  me  a  glass  of  water,  Serena!"  breathed  the  Colonel. 
He  still  held  the  letter. 

"My  dear  friend,  let  me  fan  you!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Le- 
Grand,  and  moved  to  where  she  could  see  the  offending  epistle. 
"VOTES  FOR  — oh,  Hagar,  you  surely  aren't  one  of  those 
women!" 

Miss  Serena,  who  had  flown  for  the  water,  returned.  The 
Colonel  drank  and  the  blood  receded  from  his  face.  The 
physical  shock  passed,  there  could  be  seen  gathering  the 
mental  lightning.  Miss  Serena,  too,  read  over  his  shoulder 
"VOTES  —  ...  Oh,  Hagar r 


316  HAGAR 

Hagar  laughed  —  a  cool,  gay,  rippling  sound.  "Why, 
how  round-eyed  you  all  are!  It  is  n't  murder  and  forgery. 
Is  the  word  'rebellion'  so  strange  to  you?  May  I  have  my 
letter,  grandfather?" 

The  Colonel  released  the  letter,  but  not  the  situation. 
"Either  you  retire  from  such  a  position  and  such  activities, 
or  you  cease  to  be  granddaughter  of  mine  — " 

Old  Miss,  enlightened  by  an  aside  from  Mrs.  LeGrand, 
came  into  action.  "She  doesn't  mean  that  she's  friends 
with  those  brazen  women  who  want  to  be  men  ?  What 's  that  ? 
She  says  she's  going  to  work  with  them?  I  don't  believe  it!  I 
don't  believe  that  even  of  Maria's  daughter.  Going  around 
speaking  and  screaming  and  tying  themselves  to  Houses  of 
Parliament  and  interrupting  policemen!  If  I  believed  it,  I 
don't  think  I'd  ever  speak  to  her  again  in  this  life!  Women 
Righters  and  Abolitionists !  —  doing  their  best  to  drench  the 
country  with  blood,  kill  our  people  and  bring  the  carpet 
baggers  upon  us!  Wearing  bloomers  and  cutting  their  hair 
short  and  speaking  in  town-halls  and  wanting  to  change  the 
marriage  service!  —  Yes,  they  do  wear  bloomers!  I  saw  one 
doing  it  in  New  York  in  1885,  when  I  was  there  with  your 
grandfather.  And  she  had  short  hair — " 

Mrs.  LeGrand,  as  the  principal  of  a  School  for  Young 
Ladies,  always  recognized  her  responsibility  to  truth.  She 
stood  up  for  veracity.  "Dear  Mrs.  Ashendyne,  it  is  not  just 
like  that  now.  There  are  a  great  many  more  suffragists 
now  —  so  many  that  society  has  agreed  not  to  ostracize 
them.  Some  of  them  are  pretty  and  dress  well  and  have  a 
good  position.  I  was  at  a  tea  in  Baltimore  and  there  were 
several  there.  I  've  even  heard  women  in  Virginia  —  women 


A   DIFFERENCE   OF   OPINION  317 

that  you  'd  think  ought  to  know  better  —  say  that  they  be 
lieved  in  it  and  that  sooner  or  later  we  'd  have  a  movement 
here.  Of  course,  you  don't  hear  that  kind  of  talk,  but  I  can 
assure  you  there  's  a  good  deal  of  it.  Of  course,  I  myself 
think  it  is  perfectly  dreadful.  Woman's  place  is  the  home. 
And  we  can  surely  trust  everything  to  the  chivalry  of  our 
Southern  men.  I  am  sure  Hagar  has  only  to  think  a  little  — 
The  whole  thing  seems  to  me  so  —  so  —  so  vulgar!" 

Miss  Serena  broke  out  passionately.  "It's  against  the 
Bible!  I  don't  see  how  any  religious  woman  — " 

Hagar,  who  had  gone  back  to  her  chair,  turned  her  eyes 
toward  Captain  Bob. 

" Confound  it,  Gipsy!  What  do  you  want  to  put  your  feet 
on  the  table  and  smoke  cigars  for?" 

Hagar  looked  at  Ralph. 

He  was  gazing  at  her  with  eyes  that  were  burning  and  yet 
sullen  and  angry.  "Women,  I  suppose,  have  got  to  have 
follies  and  fads  to  amuse  themselves  with.  At  any  rate,  they 
have  them.  Suffrage  or  bridge,  it  does  n't  much  matter,  so 
long  as  it 's  not  let  really  to  interfere.  If  it  begins  to  do  that, 
we  '11  have  to  put  a  stop  to  it.  Woman,  I  take  it,  was  made 
for  man,  and  she  '11  have  to  continue  to  recognize  that  fact. 
Good  Lord !  It  seems  to  me  that  if  we  give  her  our  love  and 
pay  her  bills,  she  might  be  satisfied!" 

All  having  spoken,  Hagar  spoke.  "I  should  like,  if  I  may, 
to  tell  you  quietly  and  reasonably  why — "  her  eyes  were 
upon  her  grandfather. 

"I  wish  to  hear  neither  your  excuses  nor  your  reasons," 
said  the  Colonel.  "  I  want  to  hear  a  retraction  and  a  promise." 

Hagar  turned  slightly,  "Grandmother — " 


3i8  HAGAR 

"Don't,"  said  Old  Miss,  "talk  to  me!  When  you're 
wrong,  you're  wrong,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it!  Maria 
used  to  try  to  explain,  and  then  she  stopped  and  I  was  glad 
of  it." 

Hagar  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  regarded  the  circle  of 
her  relatives.  She  felt  for  a  moment  more  like  Maria  than 
Hagar.  She  felt  trapped.  Then  she  realized  that  she  was 
not  trapped,  and  she  smiled.  Thanks  to  the  evolving  whole, 
thanks  to  the  years  and  to  her  eternal  self  pacing  now 
through  a  larger  moment  than  those  moments  of  old,  she 
was  not  by  position  Maria,  she  was  not  by  position  Miss 
Serena.  Before  her,  quiet  and  fair,  opened  her  Fourth  Di 
mension.  Inner  freedom,  ability  to  work,  personal  indepen 
dence,  courage  and  sense  of  humour  and  a  sanguine  mind, 
breadth  and  height  of  vision,  tenderness  and  hope,  her  wait 
ing  friends,  Elizabeth,  Marie,  Rachel,  Molly  and  Christopher, 
Denny,  Rose  Darragh,  many  another  —  her  work,  the  story 
now  hovering  in  her  brain,  what  other  and  different  work 
might  rise  above  the  horizon  —  the  passion  to  help,  help 
largely,  lift  without  thinking  if  it  were  or  were  not  her  share 
of  the  weight  —  the  universe  of  the  mind,  the  growing  spirit 
and  the  wings  of  the  morning  .  .  .  there  was  her  land  of  es 
cape,  real  as  the  hills  of  Gilead  Balm.  She  crossed  the  border 
with  ease;  she  was  not  trapped.  Even  now  her  subtle  self 
was  serenely  over.  And  the  Hagar  Ashendyne  appearing  to 
others  upon  this  porch  was  not  chained  there,  was  not  riveted 
to  Gilead  Balm.  Next  week,  indeed,  she  would  be  gone. 

A  tenderness  came  over  Hagar  for  her  people.  All  her 
childhood  was  surrounded  by  them;  they  were  dear,  deep 
among  the  roots  of  things.  She  wanted  to  talk  to  them;  she 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION  319 

longed  that  they  should  understand.  "If  you'd  listen,"  she 
said,  "perhaps  you'd  see  it  a  little  differently — " 

The  Colonel  spoke  with  harshness.  "There  is  no  need  to 
see  it  differently.  It  is  you  who  should  see  it  differently." 

"It  comes  of  the  kind  of  things  you've  always  read!" 
cried  Miss  Serena.  "Books  that  I  would  n't  touch!" 

"Yes,  Maria  was  always  reading,  too,"  said  Old  Miss.  For 
her  it  was  less  Hagar  than  Maria  sitting  there.  .  .  . 

"If  it  was  anything  we  didn't  know,  we  would,  of  course, 
listen  to  you,  Hagar  dear,"  said  Mrs.  LeGrand.  "I  should 
be  glad  to  listen  anyhow,  just  as  I  listened  to  those  two 
women  in  Baltimore.  But  I  must  say  their  arguments 
sounded  to  me  very  foolish.  Ladies  in  the  South  certainly 
don't  need  to  come  into  contact  with  the  horrors  they  talked 
about.  And  I  cannot  consider  the  discussion  of  such  subjects 
delicate.  I  should  certainly  consider  it  disastrous  if  my  girls 
at  Eglantine  gained  any  such  knowledge.  To  talk  about 
their  being  white  slaves  and  things  like  that  —  it  was  nauseat 
ing!" 

"Would  you  listen,  Ralph?"  asked  Hagar. 

"I'll  listen  to  you,  Hagar,  on  any  other  subject  but  this." 

Mrs.  LeGrand's  voice  came  in  again.  She  was  fluttering 
her  fan.  "All  these  theories  that  you  women  are  advancing 
now-a-days  —  if  they  paid,  if  you  stood  to  gain  anything  by 
them,  if  by  advancing  them  you  did  n't,  so  it  seems  to  me, 
always  come  out  at  the  little  end  of  the  horn  —  people  ridi 
culing  you,  society  raising  its  eyebrows,  men  afraid  to  marry 
you  — !  My  dear  Hagar,  men,  collectively  speaking  —  men 
don't  want  women  to  exhibit  mind  in  all  directions.  They 
don't  object  to  their  showing  it  in  certain  directions,'  but 


320  HAGAR 

when  it  comes  to  women  showing  it  all  around  the  circle  they 
do  object,  and  from  my  point  of  view  quite  properly!  Men 
naturally  require  a  certain  complaisance  and  deference  from 
women.  There's  no  need  to  overdo  it,  but  a  certain  amount 
of  physical  and  mental  dependence  they  certainly  do  want! 
Well,  what  's  the  use  of  a  woman  quarrelling  with  the  world 
as  it's  made?  Between  doing  without  independent  thinking 
and  doing  without  an  establishment  and  someone  to  provide 
for  you  — !  So  you  see,"  said  Mrs.  LeGrand,  smoothly  argu 
mentative,  "what's  the  use  of  stirring  up  the  bottoms  of 
things  ?  And  it  is  n't  as  though  we  were  n't  really  fond  of 
the  men.  We  are.  I  've  always  been  fonder  of  a  man,  every 
time,  than  of  a  woman.  I  must  confess  I  can't  see  any  reason 
at  all  for  all  this  strenuous  cry  ing  out  against  good  old  usage! 
Of  course  a  woman  with  considerable  mental  power  may  find 
it  a  little  limiting,  but  there  are  a  lot  of  women,  I  assure  you, 
who  never  think  of  it.  If  there's  a  little  humbug  and  if  some 
women  suffer,  why  those  things  are  in  the  dish,  that's  all! 
The  dish  is  n't  all  poisoned,and  a  woman  who  knows  what  she 
is  about  can  pick  and  choose  and  turn  everything  to  account. 
I  would  n't  know  what  to  do,"  said  Mrs.  LeGrand,  "with  the 
dish  that  people  like  you  would  set  before  us.  All  this  crying 
out  about  evolution  and  development  and  higher  forms 
does  n't  touch  me  in  the  least!  I  like  the  forms  we've  got. 
Perhaps  they're  imperfect,  but  the  thing  is,  I  feel  at  home 
with  imperfection." 

She  leaned  back,  in  good  humour.  Hagar  had  given  her  an 
opportunity  to  express  herself  very  well.  "Don't  you,  too," 
she  asked,  "feel  at  home  with  the  dear  old  imperfection?" 

Hagar  met  her  eyes.   "No,"  she  said. 


A   DIFFERENCE   OF   OPINION  321 

Mrs.  LeGrand  shrugged.  "Oh,  well!"  she  said,  "I  suppose 
each  will  fight  for  the  place  that  is  home." 

Hagar  looked  beyond  her,  to  her  kindred.  "  You  're  all  op 
ponents,"  she  said.  "Alike  you  worship  God  as  Man,  and 
you  worship  a  static  God,  never  to  be  questioned  nor  sur 
passed.  You  have  shut  an  iron  door  upon  yourselves.  .  .  .  One 
day  you  who  shut  it,  you  alone  —  you  will  open  it,  you  alone. 
But  I  see  that  the  day  is  somewhat  far." 

She  rose.  "I  was  going  anyhow  you  know,  grandfather, 
in  four  days.  But  I  can  take  the  morning  train  if  you'd 
rather?" 

But  Colonel  Ashendyne  said  stiffly  that  if  she  had  forgotten 
her  duty,  he  had  not  his,  and  that  the  hospitality  of  Gilead 
Balm  would  be  hers,  of  course,  for  the  four  days. 

Hagar  listened  to  him,  and  then  she  looked  once  more 
around  the  circle.  A  smile  hovered  on  her  lips  and  in  her 
eyes.  It  broadened,  became  warm  and  sweet.  "I'll  accept 
for  a  time  the  partial  estrangement,  but  I  don't  ever  mean 
that  it  shall  be  complete!  It  takes  two  to  make  an  estrange 
ment."  She  went  up  to  her  grandmother  and  kissed  her, 
then  said  that  she  was  going  for  a  walk.  —  "  No,  Ralph, 
you  are  not  coming  with  me!" 

She  went  down  the  porch  steps,  and  moved  away  in  the 
evening  glow.  The  black  cedars  swallowed  her  up;  then 
upon  the  other  side,  beyond  the  gate,  she  was  seen  mount 
ing  the  hill  to  the  right.  The  sun  was  down,  but  the  hilltop 
rested  against  rose-suffused  air,  and  above  it  swam  the  even 
ing  star. 

Ralph  spoke  with  a  certain  grim  fury.  "I  wish  the  old 
times  were  back!  Then  a  man  could  do  what  he  wished!  Then 


322  HAGAR 

you  did  n't  feel  yourself  caught  in  a  net  like  a  cobweb  that 
you  couldn't  break — " 

Mrs.  LeGrand  again  opened  her  fan.  "I  am  very  fond,  of 
course,  of  dear  Hagar,  but  I  must  say  that  she  seems  to  me 
intensely  unwomanly!" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

NEW   YORK   AGAIN 

IT  seemed  strange  to  be  back  at  the  Maines',  staying  a  fort 
night  with  Rachel  while  the  apartment  was  being  looked 
for.  Nothing  had  been  moved  in  that  house;  it  was  all  just 
the  same,  only  the  tone  of  time  was  deeper,  the  furniture 
more  worn,  the  prints  yellower.  She  asked  for  and  was 
given  the  third-floor  back  room  again,  though,  indeed,  Mrs. 
Maine  protested  that  now  that  she  was  famous!  .  .  .  Bessie 
had  changed  as  little  as  the  house.  More  grey  hairs,  some 
what  more  flesh,  a  great  many  more  pounds  of  chocolate 
creams  to  her  credit  —  that  seemed  all.  She  was  still  amia 
ble,  sleepily  agreeable,  comely,  and  lazy.  Powhatan,  except 
to  grow  greyer  and  leaner,  had  not  altered  either.  The  old 
servants  held  on.  With  some  inevitable  variations  the  same 
people  came  in  the  evenings  —  the  Bishop's  nephew  and  the 
St.  Timothy  people,  and  Powhatan's  downtown  acquaint 
ances,  and  chance  visitors  from  the  other  side  of  Mason  and 
Dixon's. 

She  noticed  a  slight  difference  in  the  cast  of  talk.  They  all 
seemed  uneasily  aware  that  the  world  was  moving.  Mostly 
they  disapproved  and  foreboded.  She  cast  her  mind  back  to 
that  winter  of  '93-'94-  It  had  been  the  terrible  winter  of  un 
employment,  strikes,  widespread  discontent.  She  remembered 
clearly  how  Powhatan  had  declaimed  then  against  "upset- 
ters"  and  what  the  country  was  coming  to.  But  now  she 


324  HAGAR 

heard  him  and  the  Bishop's  nephew  agree  that  anti-Christ 
and  ruin  were  modern  inventions.  They  sighed  for  the 
halcyon  past.  "Even  ten  or  twelve  years  ago,  sir,  men  were 
content  enough!" 

Rachel  —  Rachel  had  not  sat  still.  Rachel  had  climbed. 
She  was  the  old  Rachel,  but  sweetened  and  broadened. 
There  was  left  something  of  her  old  manner;  she  had  her 
broodings  that  to  the  casual  eye  seemed  half-sullen;  at  the 
end  of  long  silences  she  might  flare  out,  send  at  table  or  else 
where  a  flaming,  unexpected  arrow,  but  her  old  ways  were 
like  old  clothes,  kept  half-negligently,  worn  from  habit, 
while  all  the  time  a  fairer,  more  lately  woven  garment  was  in 
the  wardrobe.  She  looked  no  older;  she  was  slight  and  brown 
and  somehow  velvety.  Hagar  called  her  a  pansy.  She  was 
no  longer  tragic,  or  tragedy  had  become  but  a  dim  back 
ground,  a  remembered  cloud.  And  she  was  the  strong,  sane, 
and  actual  comrade  of  her  children. 

Betty  and  Charley.  .  .  .  Charley  was  blind.  Charley  and 
Betty  had  changed,  changed  more  than  anybody.  Betty 
stood  a  frank,  straight  young  Diana,  what  she  said  and  did 
ringing  true.  Charley  was  the  student.  He  had  his  shelves 
of  Braille,  and  his  mother's  eyes  and  voice  were  his  at  call. 
Just  now  they  were  doing  general  history  together  —  that 
was  what  Charley  wanted,  to  be  a  historian.  Charley  and 
Betty  claimed  Hagar  for  their  own.  There  were  her  Christ 
mas  letters  every  year  —  wonderful  letters  —  and  her  Christ 
mas  gifts,  small  choice  things  from  every  land.  They  wor 
shipped  her,  too,  with  frankness  because  she  had  "done 
something" — because  her  name  counted.  Oh,  they  were 
very  ambitious,  Betty  and  Charley;  filled  with  ideas,  glori- 


NEW   YORK   AGAIN  325 

ous  for  the  new  time,  ready  to  push  the  world  with  vigour! 
"Oh,"  cried  Hagar,  "don't  they  make  you  feel  timid,  cau 
tious,  and  conservative?" 

She  watched  with  interest  to  see  what  effect  the  two  had 
upon  Powhatan  and  Bessie.  She  was  forced  to  the  conclu 
sion  that  they  had  very  little.  They  angered  Powhatan  some 
times,  and  he  would  strike  the  table  and  deplore  the  days  of 
silent  reverence.  But  he  was  desperately  proud  of  Betty's 
looks,  and  he  had  an  odd,  sneaking  pity  and  fondness  for 
Charley,  and  Hagar  gathered  that  he  would  have  sadly 
missed  them  out  of  the  house.  As  for  Bessie,  she  only  gave 
her  sleepy  smile,  and  said  that  all  children  talked  foolishly, 
but  that  you  didn't  have  to  listen. 

Upstairs,  at  bedtime,  now  in  Rachel's  room,  now  in 
Hagar's  the  two  talked  together.  Daytime,  they  looked  for 
Hagar's  apartment.  They  found  it  at  last,  high  in  air,  over 
looking  the  great  city;  roofs  and  roofs  and  roofs  at  a  hundred 
levels;  curling  streamers  of  white  steam  like  tossed  plumes 
against  the  blue  sky,  bright  pennants  floating  from  towering 
hotel  or  department  store;  a  clock  below  a  church  spire,  with 
a  gilt  weather-cock  far  above;  blurs  of  occasional  trees  seen 
in  some  hollow  opening;  streets  far  below  them,  crossing, 
crossing  —  percolating  rivulets  of  manikins  that  were  people; 
roofs  and  roofs  and  roofs,  and  a  low  perpetual,  multitudin 
ous  voice;  and  the  sky  over  all,  high  and  clear  and  exhilarat 
ing  the  day  they  found  the  place.  "I  am  going  to  inter  a 
bromide,"  said  Hagar.  "How  marvellous  is  modern  life!" 

They  went  over  it  again.  "Thomasine's  room,  and  a 
guest-room,  and  my  room,  and  a  fine  room  for  Mary  Maga 
zine  who  is  coming  —  Isham  having  remarried  —  to  look 


326  HAGAR 

after  us,  and  two  baths  and  a  great  big  library-study-draw 
ing-room,  and  a  little  room  for  what  we  please,  and  plenty  of 
closets,  and  a  quiet  and  good  cafe  away  up  on  the  roof  — 
Rachel,  it's  fine!"  They  sat  on  a  window-seat  and  Rachel 
produced  a  pencil  and  notebook,  and  together  they  tinted 
the  walls  and  laid  rugs  and  hung  pictures  and  ran  book 
shelves  around  and  furnished  the  apartment.  "There!  that's 
quiet  and  perfect  and  not  expensive.  As  Thomson  would  say, 
'It's  quite  comme  ilfaut,  Miss!'" 

"Where  is  Thomson?" 

"Mr.  Greer,  the  artist,  has  taken  him  over.  He  wrote  me 
that  he  was  making  thousands,  throwing  the  light  on  million 
aires,  and  especially  millionairesses,  and  that  he  wanted 
Thomson,  oh,  so  badly!  He  's  the  type  that  Thomson  likes, 
and  so  he  joined  him  two  months  ago  at  Newport.  Dear  old 
Thomson!  Mahomet  has  gone  back  to  Alexandria." 

They  looked  around  the  big  room.  "Soft  lights  at  night 
and  all  those  twinkling  stars  out  there.  It 's  going  to  be  a 
dear  home." 

"You  '11  have  people  coming  about  you.  Your  own  sort  —  " 

Hagar  laughed.  "What  is  my  sort?  Everybody 's  my  sort. " 

"Writers  —  artists  — " 

Hagar  pondered  the  mantel-shelf  with  a  view  to  what 
should  go  above  it.  "I  don't  know  many  of  them.  I  know 
more  of  them  abroad  than  here.  We  're  a  very  isolated  kind 
of  craftspeople  — each  of  us  more  or  less  on  a  little  Robinson 
Crusoe  island  of  our  own.  It  may  be  different  in  New  York, 
I  don't  know.  .  .  .'  We  could  do  a  good  deal  if  we  'd  put  our 
heads  together  and  push  the  same  wheel." 

The  apartment  was  not  to  be  furnished  in  a  day.    They 


NEW   YORK   AGAIN  327 

worked  at  it  in  a  restful  and  leisurely  manner,  and  in  the 
midst  of  operations,  Hagar  went  to  see  the  Josslyns  who  had 
a  house  up  on  the  Sound. 

That  afternoon  she  and  the  Josslyns  walked  by  the  water 
and  watched  the  white  sails  gliding  by  the  green  and  rocky 
shore,  then  in  the  evening  sat  by  a  wood  fire  with  cider  and 
apples.  Monday  to  Friday  the  children  were  in  town  at  their 
grandmother's,  going  to  school;  Friday  afternoon  they  en 
tered  the  big  living-room  like  a  west  wind  and  danced  about 
with  their  mother.  A  little  later  the  whole  family  would  go 
into  town;  Christopher  had  had  a  course  of  lectures  to  write 
and  he  was  doing  it  better  here.  The  fire  crackled  and  blazed; 
at  night  through  the  open  windows  came  in  a  dim  sound  of 
waves,  with  passing  lights  of  boats,  and  the  fragrance  of  the 
salt  sea,  beloved  by  Hagar.  On  Monday,  when  the  children 
had  gone,  she  drove  with  Molly  deep  into  the  sweet  country 
side,  and  the  two  talked  as  the  quiet  old  horse  jogged  along. 
.  .  .  Molly  had  taken  the  advice  of  the  woman  at  Roger 
Michael's  dinner-party  three  years  and  more  ago.  She  was  an 
active  member  of  a  suffrage  organization,  deeply  interested, 
beginning  to  speak.  "  I  'm  a  good  out-of-doors  sort.  My  voice 
carries  and  I  don't  have  to  strain  it.  Of  course,  we're  just 
beginning  out-of-doors  speaking.  I  have  n't  half  the  intellect 
I  wish  I  bad,  but  I  can  give  them  good,  plain  doctrine.  It's 
so  common-sense,  after  all  I  And  Christopher  helps  so  much. 
.  .  .  Oh,  Hagar,  when  you're  truly  mated,  it's  heaven!" 

Molly  could  tell  much  of  the  practical  working,  of  the 
everyday  effort  and  propaganda.  "In  two  weeks  we'll  be 
back  in  town,  and  then  if  you'll  let  me  take  you  here  and 
there  —  And  when  we  get  back  to  the  house  I  '11  show  you 


328  HAGAR 

what  I  have  of  the  literature  we  use,  —  pamphlets,  leaflets, 
and  so  on,  —  from  John  Stuart  Mill  down  to  an  article 
Christopher  wrote  the  other  day.  We  broadcast  a  great 
amount  of  it  in  every  state,  but  if  we  were  rich  we  could 
make  use  of  a  thousand  times  more.  But  we're  not  rich  — 
whether  that's  to  our  damnation  or  our  salvation!  We  have 
to  make  devotion  do  instead.  Then  there  are  the  books  that 
help  us,  and  they  are  coming  out  constantly  now.  And  every 
now  and  then  we  gain  a  bit  of  the  press.  A  number  of  the 
magazines  help  no  end.  And,  of  course,  we  speak  and  have 
meetings  and  work  quietly,  each  among  her  own  acquaint 
ance.  It's  to  educate  —  educate  —  educate!  We're  just  at 
the  beginning  of  things.  There  were  the  early  stages  and  the 
heroic  women  who  blazed  the  trail.  They're  all  going, — 
Miss  Anthony  died  last  March,  —  and  their  time  is  merging 
into  our  time,  and  now  the  trail's  a  roadway  and  there  are 
thousands  on  it,  and  still  we're  just  at  the  beginning — " 

Molly  could  tell,  too,  something  of  the  personality  of  the 
women  eminent  in  the  movement.  "The  really  eminent  to 
day  are  not  always  those  whose  names  the  reporters  catch, 
and  vice  versa.  And  while  the  papers  talk  of  'leaders,'  I  do 
not  think  that,  in  the  man's  sense,  they  are  leaders  at  all.  We 
do  not  hurrah  for  any  woman  as  the  men  do  for  Mr.  Roose 
velt  or  Mr.  Bryan.  The  movement  goes  without  high  priests 
and  autocrats  and  personifications.  We  have  n't,  I  suppose, 
the  Big  Chief  tradition.  Perhaps  woman's  individualism  has 
a  value  after  all.  It's  like  religion  when  it  really  is  personal; 
your  idea  of  good  remains  your  idea  of  good;  it  does  n't  take 
on  a  human  form.  Or  perhaps  we're  merely  tired  of  crooking 
the  knee.  I  don't  know.  The  fact  remains," 


NEW   YORK   AGAIN  329 

They  jogged  along  by  country  roads  and  orchards.  "It's 
the  most  worth-while  thing!"  said  Molly.  "Nobody  can 
explain  it,  but  every  one  who  takes  hold  of  it  deep  feels  it.  I 
heard  a  woman  say  the  other  day  that  it  was  like  going  out  of 
a  close  room  into  ozone  and  wind  and  the  blue  lift  of  the  sky. 
She  said  she  felt  as  though  she  had  wings !  Discouragements  ? 
Cartloads  of  them!  But  somehow  they  don't  matter.  Nor 
do  mistakes.  Of  course  we  make  them  —  but  the  next  time 
we  do  better." 

The  witching  autumn  week  with  the  Josslyns  over,  Hagar 
went  back  to  town,  and,  as  she  had  promised,  to  the  Settle 
ment  for  three  days. 

The  Settlement!  The  first  day  she  had  seen  it  came  back 
clearly;  the  harsh,  biting  day  and  the  search  for  Thomasine, 
and  Omega  Street,  and  then  how  wonderful  the  old  house 
had  seemed  to  her,  going  over  it  with  Elizabeth.  It  was 
shrunken  now,  of  course,  in  size  and  marvel,  but  it  was  still 
a  grave  and  pleasant  place  of  fine  uses.  She  had  visited  it 
before  during  this  month,  and  she  had  marked  certain 
changes.  A  few  of  the  people  in  residence  years  before  were 
here  yet,  others  were  gone,  others  of  later  years  had  come  in. 
But  it  was  not  only  people;  others  changes  appeared.  She 
found  exhibited  a  deep  skepticism  of  certain  Danai'des' 
labours  still  favoured  or  tolerated  so  many  years  ago.  The 
policies  of  the  place  were  bolder  and  larger;  every  one  was  at 
once  more  radical  and  more  serene. 

Marie  Caton  met  her.  "Elizabeth  has  a  committee  meet 
ing,  and  then  she  speaks  to-night  at  Cooper  Union:  Women  in 
the  Sweated  Trades.  I  have  n't  had  you  to  myself  hardly  ever! 
Now  I'm  going  to." 


330  HAGAR 

"Can't  I  go  to  Cooper  Union  to-night?" 

"Oh,  yes!  I'm  going,  too.  It's  an  important  meeting. 
But  I've  got  you  for  a  whole  two  hours,  and  nowadays  that's 
a  long  and  restful  sojourn  together!  Get  your  things  off  and 
we'll  take  possession  of  Elizabeth's  sitting-room." 

In  Elizabeth's  room,  with  her  books,  with  the  Psyche  and 
the  Botticelli  Judith  and  the  Mona  Lisa  and  the  drawing  of 
the  Sphinx,  they  talked  of  twenty  things,  finally  of  the  Set 
tlement's  specific  activities,  old  ones  carried  on,  new  ones 
embarked  in;  then,  "But  more  and  more  you  get  drawn  —  or 
I  get  drawn  —  into  the  ocean  of  China  Awake." 

"China  Awake?" 

"Women  Awake.  It's  an  ocean  all  right,  with  an  ocean's 
possibilities." 

"I  don't  think  it's  women  only  who  are  waking,  Marie. 
Women  and  men,  all  of  us  — " 

"  I  agree,"  said  Marie.  "  But  it  was  n't  just  natural  sleepy- 
headedness  with  women.  They've  been  drugged  —  given 
knock-out  drops,  so  to  speak.  They  have  a  long  way  to  wake 
up." 

Hagar  mused,  her  eyes  upon  the  drawing.  "Yes,  a  good, 
long  way.  .  .  .  There  must  have  been  a  lot  of  pristine 
strength." 

"Well,  it's  coming  out.  All  kinds  of  things  are  coming  out 
with  an  accent  on  qualities  they  did  n't  think  she  had." 

"Yes.  The  world  is  rather  in  the  position  of  the  hen  with 
the  duckling — " 

"The  kind  of  thing  we  read  and  hear  at  this  place  empha 
sizes,  of  course,  the  economic  and  sociological  side.  It's  to  be 
the  Century  of  Fair  Distribution,  of  Social  Organization,  of 


NEW   YORK   AGAIN  331 

Humanism  —  ergo,  Woman  Also.  Which,  of  course,  is  all 
right,  but  I'd  put  an  infinite  plus  to  that." 

"And  Elizabeth?" 

"Oh,  Elizabeth  is  a  saint!  What  she  thinks  of  is  the 
sweated  woman  and  the  little  children,  and  the  girl  who  goes 
under  —  most  often  is  pushed  under.  It's  what  we  see  down 
here;  it's  the  starved  bodies  and  minds,  the  slow  dying  of 
fatigue,  the  monstrous  wrong  of  the  Things  Withheld  that's 
moving  her.  Of  course,  we  all  think  of  that.  How  can  any 
thinking  woman  not  think  of  that?  She  wants  the  vote  to 
use  as  a  lever,  and  so  do  I,  and  so  do  you.  .  .  .  But  behind  all 
that,  in  the  place  where  I  myself  live,"  said  Marie,  with 
sudden  passion,  "I  am  fighting  to  be  myself!  I  am  fighting 
for  that  same  right  for  the  other  woman !  I  am  fighting  for 
plain  recognition  of  an  equal  humanity!" 

There  was  a  crowd  that  night  at  Cooper  Union.  Elizabeth 
spoke;  a  grave,  strong  talk,  followed  with  attention,  clapped 
with  sincerity.  After  her  there  spoke  an  A.  F.  of  L.  man. 
"Women  have  got  to  unionize.  They've  got  to  learn  to  keep 
step.  They've  got  to  learn  that  the  good  of  one  is  wrapped 
up  in  the  good  of  all.  They've  got  to  learn  to  strike.  They've 
got  to  learn  to  strike  not  only  for  themselves,  but  for  the 
others.  They've  got  to  get  off  their  little,  just-standing- 
room  islands,  and  think  in  terms  of  continents.  They've  got 
to  get  an  idea  of  solidarity  —  " 

When  he  had  taken  his  seat  came  an  announcement,  made 
with  evident  satisfaction.  "We  did  not  know  it  until  a  few 
minutes  ago.  We  thought  she  was  still  in  the  West  —  but  we 
are  so  fortunate  as  to  have  with  us  to-night  —  Rose  Dar- 
ragh!"  Applause  broke  forth  at  once. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ROSE    DARRAGH 

ROSE  DARRAGH'S  short  speech,  at  once  caustic  and  passion 
ate,  ended  —  the  meeting  ended.  Hagar  waited  below  the 
platform. 

Rose  Darragh,  at  last  shaking  off  the  crowd,  came  toward 
her.  "I've  been  looking  at  you.  I  seem,  somehow,  to  know 
you  —  " 

"And  I  you.  And  not  —  which  is  strange  to  me  —  not 
through  another." 

"Is  your  name  Hagar  Ashendyne?" 

Hagar  nodded.   "We  can't  talk  well  here  — " 

"I'm  in  New  York  for  two  weeks.  Denny's  in  Chicago 
and  I  join  him  there.  Let  me  see  —  where  can  we  meet? 
Will  you  come  to  my  flat?" 

"Yes;  and  in  a  few  days  I  shall  have  my  own  rooms.  I 
want  to  see  you  there,  too,  Rose  Darragh." 

"  I  '11  come.  This  is  my  address.  Will  you  come  to-morrow 
at  four?" 

Hagar  went.  Denny  had  written  that  the  two  lived 
"handy  to  their  work,"  and  it  was  apparent  that  they  did. 
The  flat  had  the  dignity  of  Spartan  simplicity.  In  it  Rose 
Darragh  moved  with  the  fire  of  the  ruby. 

"Denny  had  to  go  about  the  paper.  Oh,  it's  doing  well, 
the  paper!  It's  Denny's  idol.  He  serves  in  the  temple  day 
and  night,  and  when  the  idol  asks  it,  he'll  give  his  heart's 


ROSE   DARRAGH  333 

blood.  .  .  .  You  liked  Denny  very  much,  did  n't  you  ?  —  in 
Nassau,  three  years  ago?" 

"Yes,  I  did."  They  were  sitting  in  the  plain,  bare  room, 
attractive,  for  it  was  so  clean,  the  late  autumn  sunlight 
streaming  in  at  the  curtainless  windows.  "Yes,  I  did.  I 
liked  him  so  well  that  ...  I  had  somewhat  of  a  fight  with 
myself.  ...  I  am  telling  you  that,"  said  Hagar,  "because  I 
want  your  friendship.  It  is  over  now,  nor  do  I  think  it  will 
come  again." 

Rose  Darragh  gave  her  a  swift  look  from  heel  to  head. 
"That's  strength.  I  like  strength.  ...  All  right!  I'm  not 
afraid." 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment;  then,  "I  wish  you'd  tell 
me,"  said  Hagar,  "about  your  work." 

A  very  few  days  after  this  she  took  possession  of  the  apart 
ment,  and  at  once  made  it  a  home.  There  was  a  house- 
warming  with  Rachel  and  Betty  and  Charley  and  Elizabeth 
and  Marie  and  the  Josslyns,  and  two  pleasant  gentlemen,  her 
publishers,  and  a  fellow-writer  or  two  whom  she  was  by  way 
of  knowing  and  liking,  and  an  artist,  and  an  old  scholar  and 
philosopher  whom  she  had  known  abroad  and  loved  and 
honoured.  And  there  was  Thomasine,  a  little  worn  and 
faded,  but  with  happiness  stealing  over  her,  and  Mary 
Magazine  busy  with  the  cakes  and  ale.  There  could  n't  have 
been  a  better  housewarming. 

Thomasine  —  Thomasine  began  to  bloom  afresh.  Factory 
and  department  store  and  business  school  and  office  lay 
behind  her  —  each  a  stage  upon  a  somewhat  dull  and  dusty 
and  ambuscade-beset  road  of  life.  Business  school  and  office, 
training  for  mind  and  fingers  alike,  a  resulting  "place"  with  a 


334 


HAGAR 


fair-dealing  firm  —  all  that  was  Hagar's  helping,  a  matter  of 
the  last  six  or  seven  years.  And  now  Hagar  had  come  back 
and  had  made  Thomasine  an  offer,  and  Thomasine  closed 
with  it  very  simply  and  gladly.  She  had  from  the  beginning 
worked  hard  and  as  best  she  could  and  had  given  good  value 
for  her  pay;  and  now  she  was  going  still  to  do  all  that,  but  to 
do  it  with  a  singing  heart  and  her  hunger  for  beauty  and  fit 
ness  fed.  The  colour  came  back  into  her  cheeks;  she  began 
to  take  on  a  sprite-like  beauty.  She  brought  seriously  into 
conversation  one  day  the  fact  that  she  had  always  been  good 
at  finding  four-leafed  clovers.  .  .  .  Jim  and  Marietta  were 
doing  fairly,  still  over  in  New  Jersey.  "  Fairly"  meant  a  poor 
house  which  Marietta  did  her  best  to  keep  clean,  and  two  of 
the  children  working,  and  the  city  for  summer  and  winter, 
and  Jim's  pay  envelope  neither  larger  nor  heavier,  but  the 
cost  of  living  both.  But  Jim  had  his  "job,"  and  Marietta 
was  not  so  ailing  as  she  used  to  be,  and  the  two  children 
brought  in  a  little,  and  Thomasine  helped  each  month;  so 
they  might  be  said  to  be  doing  much  better  than  many  others. 
There  was  even  talk  of  being  able  one  day  to  get  —  the  whole 
family  being  fond  of  music  —  one  of  the  cheaper  phono 
graphs. 

Hagar  and  Thomasine  worked  through  the  mornings, 
Hagar  thinking,  remembering,  creating;  Thomasine  taking 
from  her  the  labour  of  record;  caring  also  for  her  letters  and 
the  keeping  of  accounts  and  all  small,  recurring  business. 
And  Thomasine  loved  to  do  any  shopping  that  arose  to  be 
done,  —  which  was  well,  for  Hagar  hated  shopping,  —  and 
loved  to  keep  the  apartment  "just  so."  The  two  lived  in 
quiet,  harmonious  intercourse,  together  in  working  hours,  but 


ROSE   DARRAGH  335 

when  working  hours  were  over,  each  going  freely  her  indi 
vidual  way.  Thomasine,  too,  had  friends.  She  wrote  to  Jim 
and  Marietta  and  to  Maggie  at  home,  taking  care  of  the 
mother  with  the  spine,  that  she  had  n't  been  so  happy  since 
they  used  to  go  to  grandmother's  at  Gilead  Balm.  .  .  . 

Rose  Darragh  —  Rose  Darragh  had  not  been  at  Hagar' s 
housewarming.  She  was  speaking  that  night  in  Newark. 
But  some  days  afterwards  she  came  —  came  late  one  after 
noon  with  the  statement  that  she  had  the  evening  free.  She 
and  Thomasine  and  Hagar  dined  in  the  cafe  together,  but 
Thomasine  hurried  through  her  dinner,  for  she  was  going  to 
the  theatre  with  a  fellow-stenographer  with  whom  she  had 
worked  for  two  years  downtown,  and  who  was  "such  a  nice 
girl/'  and  with  the  stenographer's  brother,  who  looked  like  a 
nice  brother.  Hagar  and  Rose  Darragh,  left  at  table,  sipped 
their  coffee. 

A  quality  of  Rose  Darragh's  came  out.  She  observed  and 
deduced,  to  the  amusement  of  herself  and  of  others,  with  the 
swiftness  and  accuracy  of  M.  Dupin  or  of  Mr.  Sherlock 
Holmes.  They  had  a  small  corner  table  commanding  the 
long,  bright  room.  "Twenty  tables,"  she  said.  "Men  and 
women  and  a  fair  number  of  children.  Not  proportionately 
so  large  a  number  as  once  there  would  have  been,  and  that  is 
well,  the  bawlers  of  race-suicide  to  the  contrary!  —  I'm 
interested  in  the  women  just  now.  Man 's  had  the  centre  of 
the  stage  for  so  long!  —  and,  of  course,  we  know  that  this  is 
the  Century  of  the  Child  —  see  cotton-mills,  glass-works, 
and  canneries.  But  Woman  —  Woman's  just  coming  out  of 
the  wings.  .  .  .  There's  rather  an  interesting  collection  here 
to-night?  Do  you  know  any  of  them?" 


336  HAGAR 

"I  have  spoken  casually  to  several.  I  have  been  here,  you 
know,  only  the  shortest  time." 

"There's  a  woman  over  there  who  has  a  wonderful  face  — 
brooding  and  wise.  ...  A  teacher  isn't  she?  I  should  say  she 
was  not  married." 

"Yes;  she  is  a  teacher,  and  single." 

"There's  a  woman  who  is  a  nurse." 

"Yes.  There's  a  sick  child  in  that  family.  But  she  is  not 
in  uniform  to-night." 

"I  know  her  all  the  same.  She's  a  good  nurse.  There  are 
those  who  are  and  those  who  are  n't.  But  she's  got  strength 
and  poise  and  knows  what  she  is  about  and  is  kind.  —  Those 
two  women  over  there  — " 

"Yes.   What  do  you  make  of  them?" 

"There's  such  a  glitter  of  diamonds  you  can't  see  the 
women.  Poor  things!  —  to  be  beings  of  a  single  element  — 
to  live  in  a  world  of  pure  carbon  —  to  be  the  hardest  thing 
there  is,  and  yet  be  so  brittle  too!  .  .  .  The  woman  next  them 
is  good  ordinary:  nothing  remarkable,  and  yet  pleasant 
enough.  The  worst  that  can  be  said  of  her  is  that  she  does  n't 
discriminate.  If  the  broth  lacks  salt,  she  never  knows  it." 

"And  the  two  over  there  with  the  stout  man?" 

Rose  Darragh  gazed  a  moment  with  eyes  slightly  narrowed. 
"Oh,  those!"  she  said.  "Those  are  our  adapted  women  — 
perilously  near  adapted,  at  any  rate.  That 's  a  sucking  wife 
and  daughter.  Take  your  premise  that  in  the  divine  order  of 
things  the  male  opens  the  folds  of  his  being,  surrounds,  en 
closes,  *  shelters'  and  *  protects'  and  '  provides  for'  your 
female  in  season  and  out  of  season,  when  there  is  need,  and 
when  there  is  certainly  none,  and  your  further  premise  that 


ROSE  DARRAGH  337 

the  female  is  willing  and  ruthlessly  logical  —  and  behold  the 
supremely  natural  conclusion!  .  .  .  Daughters  of  the  horse 
leech  —  and  perfectly  respectable  members  of  society  as 
constituted!  Faugh!  —  with  their  mouths  glued  to  that  fat 
man's  pocket.  He  looks  haggard,  and  at  the  moment  he's 
probably  grinding  the  faces  of  no  end  of  men  and  women,  — 
not  because  he's  got  a  bad  heart  and  really  wants  to,  —  but 
because  he's  got  to  'provide'  for  those  two  perfectly  strong 
and  healthy  persons  in  jewelry  and  orchids!  He 's  cowed  by 
tradition  into  accepting  the  monstrous  position,  and  he's 
weak  enough  to  let  them  define  what  is  ' provision.'  He's  got 
to  keep  filling  and  filling  the  pocket  because  they  suck  so 
fast." 

"Do  you  think  they  can  change?" 

"They  can  be  forced  to  change.  They  don't  want  to 
change,  any  more  than  the  copepod  wants  to  change.  And 
logically,  while  he  persists  in  his  present  attitude,  the  man 
can't  ask  them  to  change.  He  can't  keep  his  cake  and  eat  it 
too."  She  drank  her  coffee.  "That  very  stout  gentleman 
who  is  being  driven  to  bankruptcy,  or  to  ways  that  are  queer, 
is  just  the  kind  to  strike  the  table  with  his  fist  and  violently 
to  assure  you  that  God  meant  Woman,  lovely  Woman!  to  be 
dependent  upon  Man,  and  that  it  is  with  deep  regret  that  he 
sees  woman  crowding  into  industry  and  beating  at  the  doors 
of  the  professions  —  Woman,  Wife  and  Mother,  God  bless 
her!  Do  you  notice  how  they  always  put  Wife  first?  If  the 
Association  Opposed  to  the  Extension  of  the  Franchise  to 
Women  asked  him  to-night  for  a  contribution,  they'd  prob 
ably  get  it." 

"How  numerous  do  you  think  are  those  women?" 


338  HAGAR 

"The  copepods?  Numerous  enough,  pity  't  is!  But  not  so 
numerous  as,  given  the  System,  you  might  fairly  expect: 
numerous  positively,  but  not  relatively.  And  a  lot  of  them 
have  simply  succumbed  to  environmental  pressure.  Given  a 
generation  or  two  of  rational  training  and  a  nobler  ideal  of 
what  befits  a  human  being,  and  the  copepod  will  yet  succour 
herself.  .  .  .  Denny  and  I  see  more  of  the  other  kind.  The 
drudges  outnumber  the  copepods,  and  neither  need  be.  ... 
There's  a  girl  over  there  I  like  —  the  one  with  the  braided 
hair.  Many  of  the  young  girls  of  to-day  are  rather  wonderful. 
It 's  going  to  be  interesting  to  see  what  they  '11  do  when  they  're 
older,  and  what  their  daughters  will  do.  She's  got  a  fine  head 
—  mathematics,  I  should  think." 

They  went  down  together. 

In  the  large  and  comfortable  half  study,  half  drawing- 
room  with  the  shaded  lights,  with  the  sea-like  sound  of  the 
city  without  the  windows,  with  the  books  and  pictures,  they 
walked  a  little  to  and  fro  together,  and  at  last  paused  before  a 
window  and  looked  forth  —  the  firmament  studded  with 
lights  above  and  the  city  studded  with  lights  below.  "There 's 
a  noble  word  called  Work,"  said  Rose  Darragh,  and  we  have 
degraded  it  into  Toil,  on  the  one  hand,  and  it  has  a  strong 
enemy  called  False  Ideals,  on  the  other.  What  I  ask  of  Life  is 
that  I  may  be  one  of  the  helpers  to  save  Work  from  Toil  and 
False  Ideals." 

They  watched  the  lights  in  silence,  then  turned  back  to  the 
soft  glowing  room.  When  each  had  taken  a  deep  chair  on 
either  side  of  the  great  library  table,  they  still  kept  silent. 
Rose  Darragh  sat  erect,  lithe,  strong,  embrowned,  a  wine  red 
in  her  cheeks.  As  in  the  picture  that  Hagar  remembered,  her 


ROSE  DARRAGH  339 

strong  throat  rose  clear  from  a  blouse  of  the  simplest  make, 
only  a  soft  dark  silk  instead  of  wool  in  honour  of  the  evening. 
Her  skirt  was  of  dark  cheviot.  She  wore  no  stays,  it  was 
evident,  and  needed  none.  Her  hair,  of  a  warm  chestnut, 
wavy  and  bright,  was  cut  to  about  the  length  worn  by 
Byron  and  Keats  and  Shelley.  ...  To  a  marked  extent  she 
was  interest-provoking;  there  was  felt  a  powerful  nature, 
rich  and  indomitable. 

Presently  she  spoke.  "Denny  will  be  home  next  week. 
Don't  you  want  me  to  take  you  one  day  to  see  the  shrine 
where  he  keeps  his  idol  and  watch  him  providing  acceptable 
sacrifice?  It's  rich  —  the  editorial  room  of  *  Onward!'" 

"Yes,  I  should  like  it  very  much." 

"Then  we'll  go  down  some  morning  soon.  There's  a  place 
near  the  temple  where  they  give  you  a  decent  omelette  and 
cheese.  We'll  all  three  go  there  for  luncheon.  .  .  .  Denny's 
fine." 

"I'm  very  sure  of  that." 

"Yes,  warp  and  woof,  he's  sincere  —  and  that's  what  I 
worship,  sincerity!  And  he's  able.  He  strikes  more  narrowly 
than  I  do,  but  he  strikes  deep.  We've  lived  and  worked 
together  now  eight  years.  We've  seen  hard  times  together. 
We've  nearly  starved  together.  We've  made  a  name  and 
come  out  together.  And,  bigger  than  our  own  fates,  we've 
seen  our  Cause  bludgeoned  and  seen  it  lift  its  bleeding  head. 
We've  known  together  impersonal  sorrow  and  joy,  humbling 
and  pride,  fear  and  faith,  despair  and  hope.  Denny  and  I  are 
the  best  friends.  We've  been  lovers  in  the  flesh,  but  there's 
something  better  than  that  between  us."  She  turned  square 
to  the  light  and  Hagar.  "That's  the  truest  truth,  and  yet  I 


340 


HAGAR 


want  to  tell  you  that  I  think  you've  always  been  to  him  a 
kind  of  unearthly  and  spiritual  romance.  He's  kept  you 
lifted,  moving  above  him  in  the  clouds,  beckoning,  with  a 
light  about  you.  And  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  have  not 
grudged  that — " 

"I  spoke  to  you  as  I  did  the  other  day,"  said  Hagar, 
"because,  somehow,  I  had  that  impulse.  It  was  not  necessary 
that  I  should  do  so;  that  of  which  I  spoke  had  long  passed. " 
She  rose  and  walked  slowly  back  and  forth  in  the  room. 
"When  I  bethought  myself,  that  month  in  Nassau,  of  where 
I  —  not  he  —  was  drifting  ...  I  was  able  then  to  leave  that 
current,  and  leave  it  not  to  reenter.  That  was  three  years 
ago.  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  that  temptation,  if  it  was  a 
temptation,  is  far  behind  me.  My  soul  will  not  return  that 
way,  cannot  return  that  way.  .  .  .  And  now  I  simply  want  to 
be  friends." 

"I'll  meet  you  there.  I  like  you  too  much  not  to  want  to. 
You  seem  to  me  one  of  those  rare  ones  who  find  their  lamp 
and  refuge  in  themselves." 

"And  I  like  you,  extraordinarily.  I  should  like  to  work 
with  you." 

"There  is  nothing,"  said  Rose  Darragh,  "any  easier  to 
arrange  than  that." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

AN    OLD   ACQUAINTANCE 

IN  the  year  1910,  a  certain  large  gathering  of  suffragists 
occurring  in  New  York,  permission  was  sought  and  obtained 
for  speaking  in  Union  Square.  Here  and  there,  beneath  the 
trees,  sprang  temporary  tribunes  sheathed  with  bunting  the 
colour  of  gold;  above  them  banners  and  banneroles  of  the 
same  hue,  black-lettered,  VOTES  FOR  WOMEN.  From 
each  tribune  now  a  woman  was  speaking,  now  a  man.  About 
speakers  and  tribunes  pressed  the  crowd,  good-natured,  com 
menting,  earnest  in  places.  Each  speaker  had  about  ten 
minutes;  time  up,  he  or  she  stepped  down;  another  took 
position.  Sometimes  the  crowd  laughed  at  a  good  story  or  at 
a  barbed  shaft  skilfully  shot;  sometimes  it  applauded;  some 
times  it  indulged  in  questions.  Its  units  continually  shifted; 
one  or  more  speakers  at  this  stand  listened  to,  it  went  roam 
ing  for  pastures  new  and  brought  up  before  the  next  tribune, 
whose  crowd,  roaming  in  its  turn,  filled  the  just  vacated 
spaces.  It  was  a  still,  pearl-grey  mid-afternoon,  the  pale- 
brown  leaves  falling  from  the  trees,  the  roar  of  the  city  soft 
ened,  the  square's  frontier  lines  of  tall  buildings  withdrawn, 
a  little  blurred,  made  looming  and  poetic.  All  was  a  picture, 
lightly  shifting  with  gleams  of  gold  and  a  woman's  voice, 
earnest,  lilting.  The  crowd  increased  until  there  was  a  great 
crowd.  VOTES  FOR  WOMEN  —  VOTES  FOR  WOMEN 
—  said  the  banners  and  the  banneroles. 


342  HAGAR 

A  man  and  a  woman,  leaving  a  taxicab  on  the  Broadway 
facet  of  the  Square,  stood  a  moment  upon  the  pavement. 
"What  a  crowd!"  said  the  man.  "There  is  speaking  of  some 
kind."  He  stopped  a  boy.  "What  is  going  on?" 

"Suffragettes!  Women  speaking.  Want  ter  vote.  Ain't 
got  no  husbands.  —  7  wouldn't  let  'em!  Say,  ain't  they 
gettin'  too  big  for  their  places?"  The  boy  stuck  out  his 
tongue  and  went  away. 

"Young  hoodlum!"  exclaimed  the  man  with  disgust. 

"Let  us  stay  and  hear  them  for  a  while.   I  never  have." 

"All  right!  —  I'll  pay  the  cab."  He  came  back  to  her,  and 
they  moved  across  and  under  the  trees.  "Are  you  inter 
ested?" 

"I  think  I  am.  I  have  n't  made  up  my  mind.  We're  so 
far  South  that  as  a  movement  it's  all  as  yet  only  a  rather 
distant  sound.  How  do  you  feel  about  it?" 

"  Why,  I  think  it's  an  honest  proposition.  I've  never  seen 
why  not.  We're  all  human  together,  are  n't  we?  But  build 
ing  bridges  for  South  American  Governments  has  kept  me, 
too,  a  little  out  of  earshot.  I  see  what  the  papers  say,  and 
they're  saying  a  good  deal." 

"Ours  chiefly  confine  themselves  to  being  scandalized  by 
the  English  Militants." 

"Then  your  papers  are  very  foolish.  Who  ever  supposed 
there  were  n't  Jacobins  in  every  historic  struggle  for  liberty? 
Sometimes  they  help  and  sometimes  they  hinder,  and  some 
times  they  do  both  at  once.  It's  rather  superficial  to  see  only 
the  'left,'  and  not  the  movement  of  which  it  is  the  'left."r 

They  came  beneath  the  trees  upon  the  fringe  of  the  crowd 
about  one  of  the  gold-swathed  stands.  This  was  an  attentive 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  343 

crowd,  not  restless  but  listening,  slanted  forward.  The  man 
from  the  taxicab  touched  a  young  workman  upon  the  arm. 
"Who  is  it  speaking?"  The  other  turned  a  pale,  tense  face. 
"It's  one  that  can  hold  them.  It's  Rose  Darragh,  speaking 
for  the  working-women." 

The  two  made  their  way  to  where  they  could  see  and  hear. 
Rose  Darragh,  speaking  with  a  lifted  irony  and  passion,  sent 
her  last  Parthian  arrow,  paused  a  moment,  then  cried  with  a 
vibrant  voice,  "Give  the  working-woman  a  vote!"  and 
stepped  back  and  down  from  the  stand.  "By  George!" 
breathed  the  man  from  the  cab.  The  crowd  applauded  — 
for  such  a  meeting  applauded  loudly. 

The  young  man  to  whom  the  two  had  appealed  cried  out 
also.  "  Give  the  working-woman  a  vote !  She 's  working  dumb 
and  driven  under  your  factory  laws!  Give  her  the  vote!" 

A  large,  bald-headed,  stubborn-jawed  man  who  had  been 
making  sotto-voce  remarks,  turned  with  anger.  "And  have 
them  striking  at  the  polls  as  well  as  striking  in  the  shop! 
Doubling  the  ignorant  vote  and  getting  into  the  way  of  busi 
ness!  You'd  better  listen  to  what  I  tell  you!  Woman's  place 
is  at  home  —  damn  her!" 

The  man  next  him  was  a  clergyman.  "I  agree  with  you, 
sir,  that  woman's  place  is  the  home,  but  I  object  to  your 
expletive!" 

The  bald-headed  man  was  willing  to  be  placatory.  "Well, 
Reverend,  if  we're  only  two  words  apart  —  Are  you  going 
to  stay  here?  I'm  not!  I  don't  believe  in  encouraging 
them—" 

"  I  believe  you  to  be  right  there,  sir.  Woman 's  Sphere  — " 
they  went  off  together. 


344 


HAGAR 


The  man  from  the  cab,  John  Fay  by  name,  with  his  sister- 
in-law,  Lily  Fay,  who  had  been  Lily  Goldwell,  moved  still 
nearer  the  front.  They  could  see  Rose  Darragh  pausing  for 
a  moment  beside  the  stand  before  she  went  away  to  another 
tribune.  A  woman  dressed  in  wood-brown  spoke  to  her 
laughing;  then,  a  hand  on  her  shoulder,  mounted  to  the 
platform. 

Two  women  behind  Lily  Fay  whispered  together  excitedly, 
"  Hagar  Ashendyne  ? " 

"Yes.  I  did  n't  know  she  was  going  to  speak  to-day  —  but 
she  and  Rose  Darragh  often  do  speak  together.  They're 
great  friends.  .  .  .  Somebody  ought  to  tell  them  who  she  is  — 
Oh!  they  know — " 

"SM/" 

"Oh,  she's  holding  them—" 

Lily  Fay  clutched  her  companion's  arm.  "Hagar  Ashen- 
dyne!  I  went  to  school  with  her — " 

"The  writer?" 

"Yes.  How  strange  it  seems.  .  .  .  Oh,  listen!" 

Hagar's  voice  came  to  them,  silver  clear  as  a  swinging  bell. 
"Men  and  women  —  I  am  going  to  tell  you  why  a  woman 
like  myself  finds  herself  to-day  under  a  mental  and  moral 
compulsion  consciously  to  further  what  is  called  the  Woman 
Movement — " 

She  spoke  for  ten  minutes.  When  she  ended  and  stepped 
from  the  platform,  there  followed  a  moment  of  silence,  then 
applause  broke  forth.  A  dark-eyed,  breathless  girl,  a  lettered 
ribbon  across  her  coat,  caught  her  hand.  "Hurry!  We're 
waiting  for  you  at  the  next  stand.  Rose  Darragh  is  just 
through  —  "  The  two  hastened  away  together,  lithe  and 


AN   OLD   ACQUAINTANCE  345 

free  beneath  the  falling  brown  leaves.  A  Columbia  man  was 
speaking  well  for  the  Men's  League,  but  a  good  proportion  of 
the  crowd,  John  and  Lily  Fay  among  them,  followed  the 
wood-brown  skirt. 

They  followed  from  stand  to  stand  during  the  next  hour,  at 
the  end  of  which  time  speaking  was  over  for  that  day.  The 
crowd  broke  up;  the  speakers,  after  some  cheerful  talk  among 
themselves,  gathered  together  their  banners  and  pennants 
and  went  their  several  ways;  committees  looked  after  the 
taking-down  of  the  stands. 

Lily  went  over  to  Hagar  Ashendyne  standing  with  Rose 
Darragh  and  Molly  Josslyn,  talking  to  a  little  group  of 
friendly  people.  "  I  'm  Lily  Goldwell.  Do  you  remember? " 

Hagar  put  her  arms  about  her.  "Oh,  Lily,  how  is  your 
head?  Have  you  got  that  menthol  pencil  still?" 

"My  head  got  better  and  I  threw  it  away.  Oh,  Hagar,  you 
are  a  sight  for  sair  een!  .  .  .  Yes,  Pm  Lily  Fay,  now.  I'm  on 
my  way  to  England  to  join  my  husband.  The  boat  sails  next 
week.  I 'mat  the .  This  is  my  brother-in-law,  John  Fay." 

"I've  got  to  be  at  Carnegie  Hall  to-night,"  said  Hagar. 
"And  I  have  something  to  do  to-morrow  through  the  day  — 
but  the  evening's  free.  Won't  you  come  to  dinner  with  me 

—  both  of  you  ?  Yes,  I  want  you,  want  you  bad !  Come  early 

—  come  at  six." 

To-morrow  was  the  serenest  autumn  day.  Lily  and  John 
Fay  walked  from  their  hotel  through  a  twilight  tinted  like  a 
shell.  When  they  came  to  the  apartment  house  and  were 
carried  up,  up,  and  left  the  elevator  and  rang  at  the  door 
before  them  and  it  opened  and  they  were  admitted  by  a  tidy 
coloured  maid,  it  was  to  find  themselves  a  little  in  advance 


346  HAGAR 

of  their  hostess.  Mary  Magazine  explained  with  slow,  soft 
courtesy.  "Miss  Hagar  cert'n'y  meant  to  be  home  er  long 
time  befo'  you  come,  she  cert'n'y  did.  But  there  's  er  big 
strike  goin'  on  —  er  lot  of  sewing-women  —  an'  she  went  with 
Miss  Elizabeth  Eden  early  this  mahnin',  an'  erwhile  ago  she 
telephone  if  you  got  heah  first,  you  must  'scuse  her  anyhow 
an'  make  yo'selves  at  home  'cause  she'll  be  heah  presently. 
She  had,"  Mary  Magazine  explained  further,  "to  send  Miss 
Thomasine  to  see  somebody  for  her  in  Boston,  so  there  is  n't 
anybody  to  entertain  you  twel  she  comes.  If  you  '11  just  make 
yo'selves  comfortable  — "  and  Mary  Magazine  smiled  slowly 
and  disappeared. 

The  large  room  had  not  greatly  altered  in  appearance  since 
Rachel  and  Hagar  first  arranged  it,  three  years  ago.  There 
were  more  books,  a  few  more  prints,  more  signed  photo 
graphs,  a  somewhat  richer  tone  of  time.  It  was  a  good  room, 
quiet  and  fine,  not  lacking  an  air  of  nobility.  A  great  bough 
of  red  autumn  leaves  flamed  at  one  end  like  a  stained-glass 
window.  A  door  opening  into  a  small  room  showed  a  type 
writer  and  a  desk  piled  with  work.  The  two  visitors,  with 
fifteen  minutes  of  sole  possession  before  them,  strolled  to  the 
windows  and  admired  the  far-flung,  grandiose  view,  twilight 
beginning  to  be  starred  with  the  city  lights;  then  turned 
back  to  the  room  and  its  strong  charm. 

"We've  lived  through  the  revolution,  I  think,"  said  John 
Fay.  "The  senses  move  more  slowly  than  the  event.  We're 
just  taking  it  in,  and  we  call  it  all  to  make.  But  it's  really 
made." 

"I  see  what  you  mean.  But  they — *but  we  —  have  all 
this  monstrous  amount  of  hard  work  yet  — " 


AN   OLD   ACQUAINTANCE  347 

"Yes.  Introducing  the  revolution  to  the  slow-minded.  But 
I  gather  it's  being  done."  He  moved  about  the  room,  looking 
at  the  photographs.  "Artists  and  thinkers  and  world- 
builders,  men  and  women.  .  .  .  Those  years  down  there 
around  the  Equator,  I  could  at  least  take  the  magazines,  and 
I  got  each  twelvemonth  a  box  of  books.  I  know  all  these 
people.  I  used  to  feel  quite  intimate  with  them,  down  there 
building  bridges.  .  .  .  Building  bridges  is  great  work.  I 
believe  in  it  thoroughly  and  quite  enjoy  doing  it.  ...  And 
these  are  bridge-builders,  too,  and  I  had  a  fraternal  feeling. 
I've  cut  their  pictures,  men  and  women,  from  the  magazines 
and  stuck  them  up  in  my  hut  and  said  good-morning  and 
good-evening  to  them."  He  had  the  pleasantest,  humorous 
eyes,  and  now  they  twinkled.  "  Sometimes  I  like  them  so  well 
that  I  really  kow-towed  to  them.  And  I've  laid  a  platonic 
sprig  of  flowers  before  more  than  one  of  these  women's 
pictures.  Perhaps  I'd  better  not  tell  her  so,  but  there  was  a 
picture  of  Hagar  Ashendyne  —  " 

The  door  opened  and  Hagar  entered.  She  wore  the  wood- 
brown  dress  of  yesterday  —  she  was  somewhat  pale,  with 
circles  under  her  eyes.  "Ah,  I  am  sorry!"  she  said,  "but  I 
could  not  help  it.  The  strike  .  .  .  and  they  send  the  girls  to 
the  Island.  Two  or  three  of  us  went  to  the  court  —  oh,  the 
snaky,  blind  thing  we  call  Justice!"  Her  eyes  filled.  "Par 
don!  but  if  you  had  been  there— -  "  She  caught  herself  up, 
dashed  the  moisture  from  her  eyes  and  said  —  and  looked  — 
that  she  was  glad  to  see  them.  "We'll  put  the  things  away 
that  make  your  heart  ache!  I'll  go  arid  change,  and  we'll  eat 
our  dinner  and  have  a  pleasant,  pleasant  time!" 

In  a  very  little  while  she  was  back,  dressed  in  white,  ame- 


348  HAGAR 

thysts  in  an  old  and  curious  setting  about  her  throat.  They 
had  been  Maria's,  and  to-night  she  looked  like  Maria,  lines 
of  the  haunted  mind  about  her  mouth  and  between  her  eyes. 
Only  it  was  not  her  personal  fate  that  troubled  her,  but  a 
wider  haunting.  At  dinner,  in  the  cafe  at  the  corner  table, 
she  told  them,  when  they  asked  her,  a  little  of  where  she  had 
been  and  what  she  had  done  during  the  day,  told  them  of  this 
pitiful  case  and  of  that.  Then  after  a  moment's  silence  she 
said  resolutely,  "Don't  let  us  talk  about  these  things  any 
more.  Let  us  talk  about  happy  things.  Talk  to  me  about 
yourself,  Lily!" 

"There  is  n't  much  to  tell,"  said  Lily;  "I've  been  quite 
terribly  sheltered.  For  years  I  was  ill,  and  then  I  grew  better. 
I've  travelled  a  little,  and  I  like  Maeterlinck  and  Vedanta 
and  Bergson,  and  I  play  the  violin  not  so  badly,  and  Robert, 
my  husband,  is  very  good  to  me.  I  have  n't  grown  much,  I 
am  afraid,  since  I  was  at  Eglantine.  But  more  and  more 
continually  I  want  to  grow.  Do  you  remember,  at  Eglan 
tine—" 

Dinner  was  not  long.  They  came  down  to  the  grave  and 
fair  room  with  the  scarlet  autumn  leaves  and  the  books,  and 
here  Mary  Magazine  gave  them  coffee.  They  sat  in  their 
deep  chairs  and  drank  it  slowly.  The  talk  dropped;  they  sat 
in  a  thoughtful  mood.  John  Fay  had  a  long  and  easy  figure,  a 
bronzed,  clean-shaven,  humorous  face  and  sea-blue  eyes.  Lily 
*was  slender  as  a  willow  wand,  with  colourless,  strong  features. 
Her  eyes  were  dreamy  —  Hagar  remembered  how  she  sat 
and  looked  into  the  fire  when  they  read  poetry.  Like  the 
faintest,  faraway  strain  of  a  music  not  altogether  welcome,  a 
line  went  through  her  mind,  — 


AN   OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  349 

"Where  the  quiet-coloured  end  of  evening  smiles 
Miles  and  miles  — " 

Hagar,  with  her  odd,  pensive,  enigmatical  face,  drove  the 
strain  back  to  the  limbo  whence  it  came.  She  and  Lily  talked 
of  the  girls  so  long  ago  at  Eglantine,  of  Sylvie  and  Francie  and 
all  the  rest,  the  living  and  the  dead,  and  the  scattered  fates. 
Neither  had  ever  been  back  to  the  school,  but  she  could  tell 
Lily  of  Mrs.  LeGrand's  health  and  prosperity.  "You  don't 
like  her,"  said  Lily.  "I  was  so  ill  and  homesick,  I  didn't 
have  energy  one  way  or  the  other,  but  she  was  very  smooth, 
I  remember  that,  .  .  .  and  we  were  all  to  marry,  and  only 
to  marry  —  marry  money  and  social  position  —  especially 
social  position."  They  talked  of  the  teachers.  "I  liked  Miss 
Gage,"  said  Hagar,  "and  Mrs.  Lane  was  a  gentle,  sweet 
woman.  Do  you  remember  M.  Morel?" 

"Yes,  and  Mr.  Laydon." 

"Yes,  and  Mr.  Laydon." 

Lily  started.  "Oh,  Hagar,  I  had  forgotten  that!  But  per 
haps  there  was  nothing  in  it  — " 

Hagar  laughed.  "  If  you  meant  that  at  eighteen  I  sincerely 
thought  I  loved  Mr.  Laydon  —  and  that  he,  as  sincerely,  I 
do  believe,  thought  that  he  loved  me  —  yes,  there  was  that 
in  it!  But  we  found  out  with  fair  promptness  that  it  was  false 
fire.  —  I  have  not  seen  nor  heard  of  him  for  many  years.  He 
taught  at  Eglantine  for  a  while,  and  then  he  went,  I  believe,  to 
some  Western  school.  .  .  .  Lily,  Lily !  I  have  had  a  long  life!" 

"I  have  had  as  long  a  one  in  years,"  said  Lily.  "But  yours 
has  been  the  fuller.  You  have  a  wonderful  life." 

"We  all  have  wonderful  lives,"  answered  Hagar.  "One  is 
rich  after  this  fashion,  one  after  that." 


350  HAGAR 

The  bell  rang.  In  another  moment  Denny  Gayde  came 
into  the  big  room.  The  six  years  since  the  Nassau  month  had 
wrought  little  outer  change.  He  was  still  somewhat  thin  akd 
worn,  with  a  face  at  once  keen  and  quiet,  a  little  stern,  with 
eyes  that  saw  away,  away  —  He  was  more  light  than  heat, 
but  there  was  warmth,  too,  and  it  glowed  and  deepened  all 
around  "Onward!"  When  he  said  the  name  of  his  paper,  it 
was  as  though  he  caressed  it.  He  was  like  a  lighthouse-keeper 
whose  whole  being  had  become  bei-t,  on  a  wreck-strewn 
shore,  to  tending  and  heightening  the  light,  to  sending  the 
rays  streaming  across  the  reefs. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

JOHN    FAY 

"DENNY,"  said  Hagar,  "ask  Mary  Magazine  to  give  you  a 
coffee-cup."  Denny  came  back  with  it  and  she  filled  it  from 
the  silver  urn.  "Rose  went  to  Brooklyn  to-night?" 

"Yes.  —  I  was  to  have  spoken  down  on  Omega  Street,  but 
at  the  last  moment  Harding  came  in  and  I  sent  him  instead. 
'Onward!'  's  got  the  strongest  kind  of  stuff  this  week,  and 
there  are  some  finishing  touches  —  I'm  going  back  to  the 
office  in  an  hour  or  two.  Rose  said  that  she  asked  you  for 
that  poem,  and  that  you  said  you  would  give  it,  and  she 
thought  you  might  have  it  ready.  I've  got  a  telling  place 
for  it—" 

"Drink  your  coffee  and  talk  to  the  others  while  I  copy  it 
out,"  said  Hagar.  She  rose  and  went  to  the  desk  in  the 
smaller  room.  When  she  came  back,  Lily  was  dreaming  with 
her  eyes  upon  the  forest  bough,  and  the  two  men  sat  discus 
sing  Syndicalism.  She  laid  a  folded  piece  of  paper  upon  the 
table  beside  Denny's  hand.  "There  are  only  three  verses." 

He  opened  the  paper  and  read  them.  "Thank  you,  Hagar! 
You've  struck  it  home." 

He  refolded  the  paper  and  was  about  to  put  it  in  his 
pocket  when  John  Fay  held  out  his  hand.  "May  n't  I  see  it, 
too?"  He  looked  at  Hagar. 

"Yes,  of  course,  if  you  wish." 

Fay  read  it,  held  the  paper  in  his  hand  for  a  moment,  then 


352 


HAGAR 


gave  it  back  to  Denny.  "  I  wish  I  could  write  like  that,"  he 
said. 

His  tone  was  so  oddly  humble  that  Hagar  laughed.  "I 
wish  that  I  could  build  great  bridges  across  deep  rivers!"  she 
said. 

They  sat  and  talked,  and  the  poem  gave  leadings  to  their 
talk,  though  they  did  not  speak  of  the  poem.  At  first  it  was 
Fay,  answering  Hagar's  questions,  telling  of  the  struggle  of 
muscle  and  brain  with  the  physical  earth,  of  mountain- 
piercing,  river-spanning,  harbour-making.  He  was  thirty- 
nine;  he  had  been  engineering,  building  in  strange  and  desert 
places  since  he  was  a  boy;  he  had  a  host  of  memories  of 
struggles,  now  desperate  and  picturesque,  now  patient  and 
drudging,  grapples  of  mind  with  matter,  first-hand  encoun 
ters  with  solids  and  liquids  and  gases.  He  had  had  to  manage 
men  in  order  to  manage  these;  he  had  had  to  know  how  to 
manage  men.  Born  with  an  enquiring  mind,  he  learned  as  he 
went  along  his  governments  and  peoples,  their  customs,  insti 
tutions,  motor-faiths,  strengths  and  weaknesses;  also  he 
knew  the  natural  history  of  places,  and  loved  Mother  Earth 
and  a  good  part  of  her  progeny.  He  had  also  a  defined,  quizzi 
cal  humour  which  saved  the  day  for  him  when  it  grew  too 
strenuous.  He  talked  well,  with  a  certain  drawling  fitness  of 
phrase  which  brought  Medway  into  Hagar's  mind,  but  not 
unpleasantly.  There  had  been  much  in  Medway  which  she 
had  liked. 

Fay  was  no  monopolist.  The  talk  went  from  one  to  an 
other,  and  Denny  drew  more  into  it.  He  had  been  listening 
attentively  to  Fay.  "It's  your  work,"  he  said,  "and  it's 
tremendous  and  basic  work.  You've  been  doing  it  through 


JOHN   FAY  353 

the  ages  ever  since  it  first  occurred  to  us  that  we  could 
lengthen  an  arm  with  a  stick  and  crack  a  nut  —  or  an  en 
emy's  head  —  with  a  stone.  It's  tremendous  and  basic  still. 
And  the  people  who  work  under  your  direction,  and  atom 
by  atom  give  you  power?" 

" Why,  one  day,"  said  Fay,  "they'll  work  as  artists.  A  far 
day, doubtless,  and  there  are  degrees  in  artists;  but  I  see  no 
other  conclusion.  And  to  give  the  artist  component  in  the 
mass  of  humanity  a  chance  to  strengthen  and  come  out  is,  I 
take  it,  the  tremendous  and  basic  work  to  which  we've  all  got 
to  devote  the  next  century  or  two." 

"Oh,  you're  all  right!"  said  Denny. 

Hagar  smiled.    "My  old  'News  from  Nowhere5  — " 

"But  with  a  difference,"  said  Denny.  "Morris's  was  an 
over-simplified  dream." 

"Yes;  we  are  more  complex  and  flowing  than  that.  But  it 
was  lovely.  Do  you  remember  the  harvest  home,  and  the 
masons,  so  absorbed  and  happy  in  their  building  .  .  .  like 
children,  and  yet  conscious  artists,  buoyant,  free — " 

Fay  looked  at  her.  "What,"  he  said,  "is  your  vision  of  the 
country  that  is  coming?" 

Her  candid  eyes  met  his.  "I  have  no  clear  vision,"  she 
said.  "Visions,  too,  are  flowing.  The  vision  of  to-day  is  not 
that  of  yesterday  and  to-morrow's  may  be  different  yet. 
Moreover,  I  don't  want  to  fix  a  vision,  to  mount  it  like  a 
butterfly  and  keep  it  with  the  life  gone  out.  We've  done  too 
much  of  that  all  along  the  way  behind  us.  Vision  grows,  and 
who  wishes  to  say  'Lo,  the  beautiful  End!'  There  is  no  End. 
I  do  not  wish  a  rigid  mind,  posturing  before  one  altar-piece. 
Pictures  dissolve  and  altars  are  portable." 


354  HAGAR 

"Yes,"  said  Denny,  "but—" 

"Lily  says  she  reads  Vedanta.  Well,  it  is  the  Yogi's 
Neti — neti!  Almost  your  only  possible  definition  as  yet 
is,  'Not  this  —  not  this!'  The  country  that  is  coming  — 
It  is  not  capitalism,  though  capitalism  is  among  its  ances 
tors.  It  is  not  war,  though  in  the  past  it  warred.  It  is  not 
ecclesiasticism,  though  ecclesiasticism,  too,  was  an  inn  on  its 
road.  It  is  not  sex-aristocracy,  though  that,  too,  is  behind 
it;  it  is  not  preoccupation  with  sex  at  all.  It  is  not  section 
alism,  nor  nationalism,  nor  imperialism.  It  is  not  racial 
arrogance.  It  is  not  arrogance  at  all.  It  is  not  exploitation. 
It  is  not  hatred.  It  is  not  selfishness.  It  is  not  lust.  It  is  not 
bigotry.  It  is  not  ignorance,  or  pride  in  ignorance.  —  Neti, 
neti!  ...  It  is  beauty  —  and  truth.  .  .  .  And  always  greater. 
.  .  .  And  it  comes  by  knowledge,  out  of  which  grows  under 
standing,  and  by  courage,  out  of  which  come  great  actions." 

She  ceased  to  speak,  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  her  hand 
at  the  amethysts  about  her  throat.  Fay  kept  his  eyes  upon 
her.  He  was  conscious  of  a  resurgence  of  a  morning  of  a 
couple  of  years  before  when  he  had  cut  from  a  magazine  a 
page  bearing  a  half-tone  portrait  and  had  pinned  it  above  his 
book-shelf.  HAGAR  ASHENDYNE  had  said  the  legend 
below.  The  rustle  of  the  palms  outside  his  hut  came  to  him, 
and  the  mist  of  early  morning  above  the  waters. 

The  clock  on  Hagar's  mantel-shelf  struck  ten  with  a  silvery 
stroke. 

Denny  started.   "I've  got  to  go  —  work's  calling!" 

"I  had  rather  hear  you  say,  at  ten  o'clock,  that  sleep  was 
calling,"  said  Hagar.  "You're  working  too  hard,  Rose  says 
so,  and  I  say  so."  She  looked  at  him  with  friendliness  deep 


JOHN   FAY  355 

and  tender,  soft  and  bright.  "Almost  Denny's  only  fault  is 
that  he  makes  his  work  his  god  rather  than  his  servant.  At 
times  he's  perilously  near  offering  it  a  human  sacrifice.  Why 
will  you,  Denny?" 

"There's  so  much  to  do  and  so  few  are  doing  it,"  said 
Denny.  His  eyes  were  upon  the  great  forest  bough,  but  he 
seemed  to  be  looking  beyond  it,  down  long,  long  vistas.  "I 
don't  know  that  I  worship  work.  But  I  want  every  prisoner 
of  wrong  to  rebel.  And  there's  no  time  to  waste  when  you 
have  to  pass  the  word  along  to  so  many  cells.  Sometimes  I 
feel,  too,  like  sitting  down  and  playing,  but  when  I  do,  I 
always  begin  after  a  little  to  hear  the  chains."  He  laughed. 
"And  I  like  you  and  Rose  preaching  dole e far  niente!  If  ever 
there  were  two  who  had  the  power  of  work  — !" 

"All  the  same,"  said  Hagar,  "go  to  bed  before  two  o'clock, 
won't  you?" 

He  shook  hands  around  and  was  gone.  "What  a  wonderful 
face!"  said  Lily;  and  Fay  nodded.  "A  kind  of  worn,  warrior 
angel  — " 

Hagar  took  Lily's  hand  and  kissed  it.  "You've  defined 
Denny  to  a  nicety!  'A  kind  of  worn,  warrior  angel'  —  I  like 
that!  .  .  .  No,  don't  go!  It  is  n't  late." 

"We'll  stay,  then,  just  one  other  half-hour.  And  now," 
said  Lily,  "tell  me  about  yourself.  We  see  your  name,  of 
course,  and  what  the  papers  think  you  are  doing.  But  you 
yourself — " 

"But  I  myself?"  said  Hagar.  "Ah,  if  you'll  tell  me,  I'll 
tell  you ! "  The  great  bough  of  red  leaves  against  the  wall  was 
repeated  in  miniature  by  a  spray  upon  the  table,  resting  in  a 
piece  of  cloudy  Venetian  glass.  Hagar  took  it  from  the  vase 


356  HAGAR 

and  sat  studying  it,  colour  and  line.  She  sat  at  ease  in  the 
deep  chair,  her  long,  slender  limbs  composed,  her  head  thrown 
back  against  green-bronze,  an  arm  bent  and  raised,  the 
wine-red  spray  in  her  hand.  "What,"  she  said,  "does  a  man 
or  woman  do  in  a  dusty  day's  march  of  every  great  transit? 
About  that  is  what  I  and  many  others  have  been  doing,  in 
this  age  as  in  other  ages.  Millions  of  minds  to  reach  with  a 
statement  that  for  reasons  of  weight  the  column  must  sur 
mount  such  a  hill  and  again  such  a  hill,  the  line  of  march 
lying  truly  on  higher  levels.  The  statement  did  net  originate 
with  the  messengers  of  this  or  any  other  age;  it  is  social,  and 
the  inner  urge  would  send  the  marchers  somehow  on,  but 
there  is  needed  interpreting,  clarifying,  articulation  —  hence 
the  office  that  we  fill,  though  we  fill  it  as  yet,  I  know,  weakly 
enough!  So  it  means  a  preoccupation  with  communication  — 
ways  and  means  of  reaching  minds.  And  that,  lacking  a 
developed  telepathy,  means  the  spoken  and  the  written 
word.  And  that  means,  seeing  we  have  such  great  numbers 
to  reach,  a  continuing  endeavour  to  reach  people  in  congre 
gation.  And  that  means  arrangement,  going  from  place  to 
place,  much  time  that  you  sigh  for  consumed,  some  weariness, 
a  great  number  of  petty  happenings  —  and  a  vast  insight  into 
life  and  the  way  it  is  lived  and  the  beings  who  liVe  it!  It 
means  contacts  with  reality  and  a  feeding  the  springs  of 
humour  and  an  acquaintance  with  the  truly  astonishing 
forest  of  human  motives.  And  there  is  organization  work 
and  correspondence,  and  much  of  what  might  be  called 
drudgery  unless  you  can  put  the  glow  about  it.  ...  And  there 
is  the  weaving  all  the  time  of  the  web  of  unity.  The  human 
family,  and  the  dying-out  before  love  and  understanding  of 


JOHN   FAY  357 

invidious  distinctions.  The  world  one  home,  and  men  one 
man,  though  of  an  infinite  variety,  and  women  one  woman, 
though  of  an  infinite  variety,  and  children  one  child,  and  the 
open  road  before  the  three.  And  back  of  the  three,  Oneness. 
The  Great  Pulse  —  out,  the  Many;  in,  the  One.  ...  So  I 
with  others  speak  and  write  and  go  about  and  work." 

When  the  clock  struck  again,  Lily  and  John  Fay  said 
good-night.  Lily  was  to  come  once  more  before  her  boat 
sailed. 

Hagar  looked  at  Fay.   "You  are  going  to  England,  too?" 

He  hesitated.   " I've  said  so — " 

"He's  just  built  a  great  bridge,"  said  Lily,  "and  he  has  n't 
really  taken  a  holiday  for  years.  Robert  and  I  want  him  just 
as  long  as  he  will  travel  with  us." 

When  they  were  gone,  Hagar  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  far  and  wide  upon  the  city  settling  to  its  rest. 
Here,  to-night,  would  be  deep  repose,  here  fevered  tossing, 
here  perhaps  no  sleep  at  all.  There  would  be  death  chambers 
and  birth  chambers  —  a  many  of  each.  And  spiritual  death 
chambers  and  spiritual  birth  chambers  and  the  trodden 
middle  rooms,  minds  that  cried,  "Light,  more  light!"  and 
minds  that  said,  "We  see  as  it  is."  .  .  .  And  over  all,  the  suns 
so  far  away  they  were  but  glittering  points.  Hagar's  gaze 
moved  across  the  heavens  from  host  to  host.  "Ah,  if  you 
were  hieroglyphics,  and  we  could  find  the  key — " 

She  came  back  to  the  lamplit  table;  Thomasine  away, 
Mary  Magazine  asleep  —  the  place  was  alone  with  her.  She 
had  been  tired,  but  she  did  not  feel  so  now.  She  sat  down, 
put  her  arms  above  her  head  and  her  eyes  upon  the  forest 
bough,  and  began  to  think.  .  .  .  She  thought  visually  with 


358  HAGAR 

colour  and  light  and  form,  luminous  images  parting  the  mist, 
rising  in  the  great  "interior  sphere."  She  sat  there  till  the 
clock  struck  twelve,  then  she  rose,  put  out  the  lights,  opened 
every  window.  In  the  east,  above  the  roofs,  glittered  Orion, 
with  Aldebaran  red  and  mighty  and  the  glimmering  Pleiades. 
Hagar  stood  and  gazed.  She  lifted  her  eyes  toward  the  zenith 
—  Capella  and  Algol  and  the  street  whose  dust  is  stars  be 
tween.  Her  lips  moved,  she  raised  her  hand.  "All  hail!"  she 
said;  then  turning  from  the  window  opened  the  door  that  led 
into  her  bedroom.  It  was  a  white  and  fair  and  simple  place. 
As  she  undressed,  she  was  thinking  of  the  October  woods  at 
Gilead  Balm. 

Three  days  later,  at  the  hotel,  Lily  and  John  Fay  had  a 
short  but  momentous  conversation.  "Do  you  want  to  go, 
John  ?  I  don't  want  you  to  go  if  you  don't  want  to  go,  you 
know." 

"That's  what  I  came  to  talk  to  you  about,"  said  Fay.  "I 
have  my  stateroom.  The  boat  sails  day  after  to-morrow. 
I've  written  to  men  I  know  in  London  and  in  Paris.  I  want 
to  see  them.  They're  men  I've  worked  with.  I  want  to  see 
Robert.  I  even  want  to  keep  on  seeing  you,  Lily!  I've  been 
about  as  eager  as  a  boy  for  that  run  over  Europe  with  the 
two  of  you.  And  I  don't  want  to  disappoint  you  and  Robert, 
if  it  is  the  least  disappointment.  But  — " 

"I  don't  know  that  she'll  ever  marry,"  said  Lily.  "She'll 
not,  unless  she  finds  some  one  alike  to  strengthen  and  be 
strengthened  by.  A  lot  of  the  reasons  for  which  women  used 
to  marry  are  out  of  court  with  her.  Even  what  we  call  love  — 
she  won't  feel  it  now  for  anything  less  than  something  that 
matches  her." 


JOHN   FAY  359 

Fay  walked  across  the  floor,  stood  at  the  window  a  mo 
ment,  then  came  back.  "I  won't  fence,"  he  said.  "It's 
simple  truth,  however  you  divined  it.  And  Pm  going  to 
stay.  I  don't  match  her,  but  IVe  never  proposed  to  stop 
growing." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

RALPH 

FAY  stayed.  Lily's  farewell  note  to  Hagar  merely  said  that 
after  all  he  was  not  sailing  with  her  and  that  she  hoped  Hagar 
v/ould  let  him  be  among  her  friends.  He  made  a-  good  friend. 
Fay  himself  wrote  to  her,  stating  that  he  would  be  much  in 
New  York  that  autumn  and  winter  and  asking  if  he  might 
come  to  see  her.  She  answered  yes,  but  that  she  herself  was 
often  away;  he  would  have  to  take  the  chance  of  not  finding 
her.  He  came,  and  she  was  away,  came  again,  and  she  was 
away;  then  she  wrote  and  asked  him  to  dine  with  her  on  such 
an  evening.  He  went,  and  it  was  an  evening  to  mark  with  a 
white  stone,  to  keep  a  lamp  burning  before  in  the  mind.  He 
asked  how  he  could  find  out  where  she  would  be,  since  it 
was  evident  that  she  was  speaking  here  and  there.  She 
nodded;  she  was  working  hard  that  autumn,  oftenest  in 
company  with  Rose  Darragh,  but  often,  too,  with  Elizabeth 
Eden  and  Marie  Caton,  with  Rachel  and  Molly  Josslyn.  She 
showed  him  a  list  of  meetings. 

He  thanked  her  and  copied  it  down.  "  I  see  that  your  book 
will  presently  be  out." 

"Yes.   I  hope  that  you  will  like  it." 
"I  think  that  I  shall.   How  hard  you  work!" 
"Not  harder  than  others.   The  secret  is  to  learn  concen 
tration  and  to  fill  all  the  interstices  with  the  balm  of  leisure. 
And  to  work  with  love  of  the  World  to  Be." 


RALPH  361 

That  November,  together  with  Rose  Darragh  and  Denny 
and  Elizabeth,  she  was  often  speaking  in  the  poor  and 
crowded  sections  of  the  great  city.  Sometimes  they  talked 
to  the  people  in  dim,  small  halls,  sometimes  in  larger,  brighter 
places,  sometimes  there  were  street  meetings.  She  grew 
aware  that  often  Fay  was  present.  Sometimes,  when  the 
meeting  was  over,  he  joined  her;  it  began  to  be  no  infrequent 
thing  his  going  uptown  upon  the  car  with  her.  She  began  to 
wonder.  .  .  .  Once  in  a  street  meeting  she  saw  him  near  her  as 
she  spoke.  It  was  a  good  crowd  and  interested.  As  she 
brought  her  brief,  straight  talk  to  a  conclusion,  Elizabeth 
whispered  to  her,  "Lucien  could  n't  come.  Is  there  any  one 
else  who  could  speak?"  Hagar's  eyes  met  John  Fay's.  "  We 
lack  a  speaker,"  she  said.  "Couldn't  you  —  won't  you?" 
He  nodded,  stepped  upon  the  box,  and  made  a  good  speech. 
His  drawling,  telling  periods,  his  smiling,  sea-blue  eyes,  a 
story  that  he  told  and  a  blow  or  two  out  from  the  shoulder 
caught  the  fancy  and  then  the  good-will  of  the  crowd. 

An  old  woman,  Irish,  wrinkled,  her  hands  on  her  hips, 
called  out  to  him.  "Be  yez  the  new  man?  If  yez  are,  I  loike 
yez  foine!" 

He  laughed  at  and  with  her.  "Do  you?  Then  you'll  have 
to  become  a  new  woman  to  match  me!" 

The  November  dusk  was  closing  in  when  the  crowd  dis 
persed.  Elizabeth  with  the  other  woman  speaker  faced  to 
ward  the  Settlement.  "Can't  you  come  with  me,  Hagar?" 

"No,  not  to-night.  There  are  letters  and  letters  — " 

Fay  asked  if  he  might  go  uptown  with  her. 

She  nodded.  "Yes,  if  you  like.  Good-night,  Elizabeth  — 
good-night,  Mary  Ware;  good-night,  good-night!" 


362  HAGAR 

They  took  a  surface  car.  She  sat  for  a  minute  with  her  eyes 
shut. 

"Are  you  very  tired?" 

She  smiled.  "No,  I  am  not  tired.  After  all,  why  should  it 
fatigue  more  than  standing  in  cathedrals,  walking  through 
art  galleries?  But  I  was  thinking  of  something.  .  .  .  Let  us 
sit  quietly  for  a  while." 

The  minutes  went  by.  At  last  she  spoke.  "I  liked  what 
you  said,  and  the  way  you  said  it.  Thank  you." 

"  You  do  not  need  to  thank  me.  Had  I  been  less  convinced, 
I  might  have  spoken  because  you  asked  me  to.  As  it  is,  I  was 
willing  to  serve  the  truth." 

"Ah,  good!  .  .  ." 

There  was  another  silence;  then  she  began  to  speak  of  the 
light  and  thunder  of  the  city  about  them,  and  then  of  a  book 
she  was  reading.  When  they  left  the  car  it  was  dark  —  they 
walked  westward  together. 

"Have  you  heard  from  Lily?" 

"Yes.  She  and  Robert  are  going  first  to  the  Riviera,  then 
to  Sicily." 

"  Both  are  very  lovely.  Why  do  you  not  change  your  mind 
and  go?" 

"I  like  it  better  here." 

The  evening  was  dark,  clear  and  windy,  with  the  stars 
trooping  out. 

"When,"  asked  Hagar,  "are  you  going  to  build  another 
bridge?" 

He  pondered  it.  "I've  been  building  for  a  long  time  and 
I  'm  going  to  build  for  another  long  time.  Do  you  grudge  me 
this  half-year  in  between?" 


RALPH  363 

"I  do  not.  I  was  only  wondering — "  She  broke  off  and 
began  to  talk  about  the  Josslyns  whom,  it  had  turned  out,  he 
knew  and  liked.  Two  weeks  ago  she  had  dined  there  with 
him,  and  Christopher  had  taken  occasion  to  tell  her  that 
John  Fay  was  about  the  rightest  all  right  he  knew.  .  .  .  She 
had  not  really  needed  the  telling.  She  had  a  good  deal  of 
insight  herself. 

They  came  to  the  great  arched  door  of  the  apartment 
house,  and  there  she  told  Fay  good-night.  When  he  was  gone, 
she  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  paved  lobby  with  its  palm 
or  two,  her  eyes  upon  the  clear  darkness  without;  then  she 
turned  to  the  elevator. 

Upstairs,  within  her  own  doors,  Thomasine  met  her.  "Oh, 
Hagar!  It's  Mr.  Ralph  — " 

"Ralph!" 

Ralph  had  been  abroad,  and  she  had  not  seen  him  for  a 
long  time. 

"Yes!"  said  Thomasine.  "His  boat  came  in  yesterday 
evening.  And  awhile  ago  he  telephoned  to  ask  you  if  he  might 
come  to  dinner  with  you,  and  I  did  n't  know  what  to  say,  and 
I  told  him  you  would  n't  be  in  till  late;  and  he  said  did  I  think 
you'd  mind  his  coming,  and  I  did  n't  know  what  to  say,  so  I 
said,  'No,'  I  could  n't  think  so;  and  he  asked  what  time  you 
dined  —  and  it's  nearly  seven  now — " 

"Well,  you  could  n't  say  anything  else,"  said  Hagar. 
"Only  I  devoutly  hope — "  She  moved  toward  her  own 
room.  "I'll  dress  quickly." 

"And  don't  you  think,"  said  Thomasine,  "that  I'd  better 
not  dine  with  you  — " 

"  I  think  just  the  contrary,"  answered  Hagar,  and  vanished. 


364  HAGAR 

Ralph  came.  He  was  the  Ralph  of  three  years  ago,  of  that 
last  autumn  week  at  Gilead  Balm,  only  with  certain  things 
accentuated.  He  was  richer,  he  had  more  and  more  a  name  in 
finance;  his  state  was  now  loudly  and  perpetually  proud 
of  him.  There  was  an  indefinable  hardening.  .  .  .  He  was 
very  handsome,  Thomasine  thought;  he  looked  tremendously 
Somebody.  He  had  been  around  the  world  —  his  physician 
had  sent  him  off  because  of  a  threatened  breaking-down. 
Apparently  that  had  been  staved  off,  pushed  at  least  into  a 
closet  to  stay  there  a  few  years.  He  talked  well,  with  vigorous, 
clipped  sentences,  of  Australia  and  China  and  India.  Hagar, 
sitting  opposite  him  in  a  filmy  black  gown,  kept  the  talk  upon 
travel.  She  had  not  seen  him  for  eighteen  months,  and  before 
then,  for  a  long  while,  their  meetings  had  been  casual,  cold 
and  stiff  enough,  with  upon  his  side  an  absurd  hauteur.  The 
eighteen  months  had  at  least  dissipated  that.  .  .  .  Dinner 
over,  they  went  for  coffee  back  to  the  apartment,  and 
Thomasine  determinedly  disappeared.  Old  Gilead  Balm  talk 
was  in  Thomasine's  mind.  Ralph  Coltsworth  and  Hagar 
Ashendyne  were  to  mate  —  Old  Miss  had  somehow  kept  that 
in  the  air,  even  so  long,  long  ago. 

In  the  grave  and  restful  room  with  its  shaded  lights  Hagar 
poured  a  cup  of  coffee  for  her  cousin  and  gave  it  to  him. 

Taking  it,  he  took  for  a  moment  also  her  two  hands,  long, 
slender,  and  very  finely  made.  "Ringless!"  he  said. 

Hagar,  withdrawing  them,  poured  her  own  coffee.  "I 
have  never  cared  to  wear  jewels.  A  necklace  and  an  old 
brooch  or  two  of  my  mother's  are  almost  the  only  things  I 
have." 

Ralph  looked  about  the  room.  The  bough  of  flaming  maple 


RALPH  365 

was  gone  and  in  its  place  rested  a  great  branch  of  cone- 
bearing  white  pine. 

Her  eyes  followed  his.  "I  can  see  the  forest  through  it. 
Do  you  remember  the  great  pine  above  the  spring?" 

His  gaze  still  roamed.   "And  you  call  this  home?" 

"Yes,  it  is  home." 

"Without  a  man?" 

She  smiled.  "Do  you  think  there  can  be  no  home  without 
a  man?" 

He  drank  his  coffee;  then,  putting  down  the  cup,  rose  and 
moved  about  the  deep  and  wide  place.  She  watched  him  from 
her  armchair,  long  and  slim  as  Diana  in  her  black  robe.  He 
looked  at  the  walls  with  their  rows  of  cabined  thought  and  the 
pictures  above,  at  the  great  library  table  with  its  tokens  of 
work,  and  then,  standing  before  the  wide,  clear  windows,  at 
the  multitudinous  lights  of  the  world  without.  A  sound  as  of 
a  distant  sea  came  through  the  glass.  "And  without  a  child  ?" 

Her  clear  voice  sounded  behind  him.  "You  are  mistaken," 
she  said.  "My  work  is  my  child.  One  human  being  serves 
and  expresses  in  one  way  and  one  in  another,  and  I  think  it  is 
not  the  office  which  is  higher  or  lower,  but  only  the  mind 
with  which  the  office  is  performed.  Did  I  ever  meet  a  man 
whom  I  loved  and  who  was  my  comrade,  and  who  loved  me 
and  saw  in  me  his  comrade,  my  home  would  probably  open  to 
that  man.  And  we  two  might  say,  'Now  in  cleanliness  and 
joy  and  awe  will  we  bring  a  child  into  our  home.'  ...  I  think 
that  would  be  a  happy  thing  to  happen.  But  if  it  does  not 
happen,  none  the  less  will  I  have  my  earthly  home  as  I  have 
my  unearthly,  and  be  happy  in  it,  and  none  the  less  will  I  do 
world-work  and  rejoice  in  the  doing.  And  if  it  happened,  it 


366  HAGAR 

would  be  but  added  bliss  —  it  would  be  by  no  means  all  the 
bliss,  or  all  the  world,  nor  should  it  be.  We  grow  larger 
than  that.  .  .  .  And  now,  having  answered  your  question, 
come!  let  us  sit  down  and  talk  about  what  you  are  doing  and 
when  you  are  going  down  to  Hawk  Nest.  I  had  a  letter  from 
Gilead  Balm  last  week  —  from  Aunt  Serena." 

He  came  and  sat  down.  "The  last  time  I  was  at  Gilead 
Balm  —  two  years  and  a  half  ago  —  they  said  they  had 
ceased  to  write  to  you." 

"They  have  begun  again,"  said  Hagar  calmly.  "Dear 
Ralph,  we  live  in  the  twentieth  century.  You  yourself  are 
here  to-night,  eating  my  bread  and  salt." 

"Have  you  been  to  Gilead  Balm?" 

"Yes,  I  went  last  summer,  and  again  the  summer  before. 
Not  for  long,  for  a  little  while.  Grandfather  and  grandmother 
and  Aunt  Serena  said  some  hard  things,  but  I  think  they 
enjoyed  saying  them,  and  I  could  ramble  over  the  old  place, 
and,  indeed,  I  think,  though  they  would  never  have  said  so, 
that  they  were  glad  to  have  me  there.  I  will  not  quarrel. 
They  are  so  feeble  —  the  Colonel  and  Old  Miss.  I  do  not 
think  they  can  live  many  years  longer." 

"Are  you  going  again  this  summer?" 

"Yes." 

They  talked  again  of  his  journey  and  recovered  health,  of 
New  York,  of  the  political  and  financial  condition  of  the  coun 
try;  or  rather  he  gave  his  view  upon  this  and  she  sat  studying 
him,  her  fine,  long  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  What  with  ques 
tion  and  remark  she  kept  him  for  a  long  time  upon  general 
topics,  or  upon  his  increasing  part  in  the  subtle  machinery 
behind  so  much  that  made  general  talk;  —  but  at  last,  skil- 


RALPH  367 

fully  as  she  fenced,  he  came  back  to  personal  life  and  to  his 
resentment  of  all  her  attitude.  .  .  .  He  had  thought  that  time 
and  absence  had  cured  his  passion  for  her.  Even  a  month  ago 
he  had  told  himself  that  there  was  left  only  family  interest, 
old  boyish  memories.  He  disapproved  intensely  of  the  way 
she  thought  of  things;  she  was  not  at  all  the  \v,.e  for  him. 
Sylvie  Carter  was  —  he  would  go  to  see  Sylvie  just  as  soon  as 
he  reached  New  York.  .  .  .  And  then,  upon  the  boat,  coming 
over,  it  was  of  Hagar  that  he  dreamed  all  the  time.  Like  a 
gathering  thunderstorm  it  was  all  coming  back.  Landing  in 
New  York  he  had  only  thought  of  her,  all  last  night  and  to 
day.  It  was  an  obsession,  he  told  himself  that  —  he  could  see 
that  once  he  had  her,  possessed  her,  owned  her,  he  would 
fight  her  through  life  ...  or  she  would  fight  him  .  .  .  and  all 
the  same  the  obsession  had  him,  whirling  him  like  a  leaf  in 
storm. 

He  spoke  with  a  suddenness  startling  to  himself.  "What  is 
between  us  is  all  this  fog  of  damnable  ideas  that  has  arisen 
in  the  last  twenty  years !  If  it  was  n't  for  that  you  would 
marry  me." 

Hagar  took  the  jade  Buddha  from  the  table  and  weighed 
it  in  her  hands.  "Oh,  give  me  patience — "  she  murmured. 

He  rose  and  began  to  pace  the  floor.  The  physical,  the 
passionate  side  of  him  was  in  storm.  He  was  not  for  nothing  a 
Coltsworth.  Coltsworths  were  dominating  people,  they  were 
masterful.  They  wished  to  prevail,  body  and  point  of  view, 
point  of  view,  perhaps,  no  less  than  body.  They  were  not  con 
tent  to  have  their  scheme  of  life  and"  to  allow  another  a  like 
liberty;  their  scheme  must  lie  upon  and  smother  under  the 
other's.  They  wished  submissiveness  of  mind  —  the  other 


368  HAGAR 

person's  mind.  They  wished  it  in  their  relations  with  men 
—  Ralph  himself  preferred  subservient  officials,  subservient 
secretaries,  subservient  boards,  subservient  legislators.  He 
preferred  men  to  listen  in  the  club,  he  liked  a  deferential  mur 
mur  from  his  acquaintance.  He  had  followers  whom  he  called 
friends.  A  certain  number  of  these  truly  admired  him ;  he  was 
to  them  feudal  and  splendid.  He  was  a  Coltsworth  and  Colts- 
worths  liked  to  dominate  the  minds  and  fortunes  of  men. 
When  it  came  to  collective  womankind,  they  might  have  said 
that  they  had  really  never  considered  the  question  —  natur 
ally  men  dominated  women.  To  them  God  was  male.  They 
would  have  agreed  with  the  Kentucky  editor  that  the  femin 
ist  movement  was  an  audacious  attempt  to  change  the  sex 
of  Deity.  .  .  .  The  thing  that  angered  the  Coltsworths  through 
and  through  was  Revolt.  Political,  economic,  intellectual, 
spiritual  —  Revolt  was  Revolt,  whatever  adjective  went 
before!  Rage  boiled  up  in  the  mind  of  the  master.  And  when 
the  revolted  was  not  perturbed,  or  anxious  or  fluttered,  but 
stood  aloof  and  was  aloof,  when  the  revolt  was  successful, 
when  the  rebellion  had  become  revolution  and  the  new  flag 
was  up  and  the  citadel  impregnable  —  the  sense  of  wrath  and 
injury  overflowed  like  the  waves  of  Phlegethon.  It  over 
flowed  now  with  Ralph. 

He  turned  from  the  window.  "All  this  rebellion  of  women 
is  unthinkable!" 

Hagar  looked  at  him  somewhat  dreamily.    "However,  it 
has  occurred." 

"Things  can't  change  like  that — " 

"The  answer  to  that  is  that  they  have  changed." 

She  sat  and  smiled  at  him,  quite  eluding  him,  a  long  way 


RALPH  369 

off.  "Do  you  think  that  only  mind  in  man  rebels?  Mind  in 
woman  does  it  too.  And  it  comes  about  that  there  are  always 
more  rebels,  men  and  women.  We  are  quite  numerous  to 
day.  .  .  .  But  there  are  women  who  do  not  rebel,  as  there  are 
men.  There  are  many  women  who  will  grant  you  your 
every  premise,  who  are  horrified  in  company  with  you,  hor 
rified  at  us  others.  .  .  .  Why  do  you  not  wish  to  mate  among 
your  own  kind?" 

"I  wish  to  mate  with  you!'9 

She  shook  her  head.  "That  you  cannot  do.  ...  There  is 
being  drawn  a  line.  Some  men  and  women  are  on  one  side  of 
it,  and  some  men  and  women  are  on  the  other  side  of  it. 
There  is  taking  place  a  sorting-out. .  . .  In  the  things  that  make 
the  difference  you  are  where  you  were  when  Trov  fell.  I 
cannot  go  back,  down  all  those  slopes  of  Time." 

"I  am  afire  for  you." 

"You  wake  in  me  no  answering  fire."  She  rose.  "I  will 
talk  about  much  with  you,  but  I  will  talk  no  longer  about 
love.  You  may  take  your  choice.  Stay  and  talk  as  my  old 
playmate  and  cousin,  or  say  good-night  and  good-bye." 

"If  I  go,"  said  Ralph  hoarsely,  "I  shall  not  come  again  — 
I  shall  not  ask  you  again  — " 

"Ralph,  Ralph!  do  you  think  I  shall  weep  for  that?  .  .  . 
You  do  think  that  I  shall  weep  for  that!  .  .  .  You  are  mad!" 

"By  God!"  said  Ralph,  and  quivered,  "I  wish  that  we 
were  together  in  a  dark  wood  —  I  wish  that  you  were  in  a 
captured  city,  and  I  was  coming  through  the  broken  gate  — " 
Suddenly  he  crossed  the  few  feet  between  them,  caught  and 
crushed  her  in  his  arms,  bruising  her  lips  with  his.  "Just  be  a 
woman  —  you  dark,  rich  thing  with  wings  — " 


37o  HAGAR 

Hagar  had  a  physical  strength  for  which  he  was  unpre 
pared.  Exerting  it,  she  freed  herself,  and  in  the  same  instant 
and  as  deliberately  as  swiftly,  struck  him  across  the  face  with 
her  open  hand.  " Good-bye,  to  you!"  she  said  in  a  thrilling 
voice. 

They  stared  at  each  other  for  a  moment  across  space. 
Then  Hagar  said  quietly.  "You  had  better  go,  Ralph  .  .  ." 

He  went.  When  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  she  stood 
very  still  for  a  few  moments,  her  eyes  upon  the  pine  bough. 
The  excess  of  colour  slowly  ebbed  from  her  face,  the  anger 
died  in  her  eyes.  "Oh,  all  of  us  poor,  struggling  souls!"  she 
said.  Obeying  some  inner  impulse  she  first  lowered,  then 
extinguished  the  lights  in  the  room  and  moved  to  one  of  the 
windows.  She  threw  up  the  sash  and  the  keen,  autumnal 
night  streamed  in  upon  her.  The  window-seat  was  low  and 
broad.  She  sat  there  with  her  head  thrown  back  against  the 
frame,  and  let  the  night  and  the  high,  starry  heaven  and  the 
moving  air  absorb  and  lift  her.  It  was  very  clear  and  there 
seemed  depths  on  depths  above.  Hyades  and  Pleiades,  and 
the  Charioteer,  and  Andromeda  Bound,  and  Perseus  climb 
ing  the  steep  sky.  "We  are  all  bound  and  limited  —  we 
are  all  on  the  lower  slopes  of  Time  —  down  in  the  fens  with 
the  lower  nature.  It  is  only  a  question  of  more  or  less  — 
Aspiration  born  and  strengthening,  or  Aspiration  yet  in  the 
womb.  Then  what  room  for  anger  because  another  is  where 
I  have  been  — because  another,  coming  upward,  rests  awhile 
in  the  dungeon  that  was  also  mine,  perhaps  it  was  yester 
day,  perhaps  it  was  ages  ago?  .  .  .  Where  I  am  to-day  will 
seem  dungeon  enough  to  that  which  one  day  I  shall  be.  ... 
And  so  with  him,  and  so  with  us  all  .  .  ." 


RALPH  371 

A  month  after  this  she  found  among  her  letters  one  morn 
ing  four  smoothly  ecstatic  pages  from  Sylvie  Carter.  Ralph 
had  asked  Sylvie  to  marry  him,  and  Sylvie  had  said  Yes. 
Sylvie  wrote  that  she  expected  to  be  very  happy,  and  that 
she  was  going  to  do  her  best  to  make  Ralph  so,  too.  The 
next  day  brought  a  half-page  from  Ralph.  It  stated  that 
something  Hagar  had  said  had  set  him  to  thinking.  She  had 
said  that  there  was  being  a  line  drawn  and  that  some  men 
and  some  women  were  finding  themselves  together  on  either 
side.  He  thought  there  was  truth  in  it,  and  that,  after  all,  one 
should  marry  within  one's  class;  otherwise  a  perpetual  clash 
of  opinions,  fatal  to  love.  There  followed  a  terse  announce 
ment  of  his  engagement  to  Sylvie,  and  he  signed  himself, 
"Your  affectionate  cousin,  Ralph  Coltsworth." 

But  it  was  Old  Miss  whose  letter  was  wholly  aggrieved  and 
indignant.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

GILEAD    BALM 

THE  second  letter  from  Old  Miss  came  in  February.  The 
Colonel  had  suddenly  failed  and  taken  to  his  bed.  Old  Miss 
believed  that  he  would  get  up  again,  —  there  was,  she  said, 
no  reason  why  he  should  n't,  —  but  in  the  mean  time  there 
he  lay.  He  was  a  little  wandering  in  his  mind,  and  he  had 
taken  to  thinking  that  Hagar  was  in  the  house,  and  a  little 
girl  still,  and  demanding  to  see  her.  Old  Miss  suggested  that 
she  should  come  to  Gilead  Balm. 

She  went  at  once.  On  the  train,  thundering  south  through  a 
snowy  night,  she  lay  awake  until  half  of  her  journey  was  over. 
Scenes  and  moments,  occurrences  of  the  outer  and  inner  life, 
went  by  her  mind  like  some  endless,  shifting  tapestry.  Child 
hood,  girlhood,  womanhood,  work  and  play,  the  daily, 
material  task  and  the  inner  lift,  lift,  and  ever-strengthening 
knowledge  of  the  impalpable  —  that  last  was  not  tapestry; 
it  was  height  and  breadth  and  depth,  and  something  more. 
The  old,  wide  travel  came  back  to  her;  shifting  gleams  of 
Eastern  cities,  deserts,  time-broken  temples,  mountains, 
vineyards,  haunted  groves,  endless  surrounding,  azure, 
murmuring  seas.  .  .  .  Medway,  white-clothed  and  helmeted, 
in  his  rolling  chair.  .  .  .  The  whistle  shrieked;  the  train 
stopped  with  a  jar  at  some  lighted  station,  then,  regathering 
its  forces,  rushed  and  roared  on  through  the  February  night. 
Now  it  was  the  last  three  years  and  more:  they  passed  in 


GILEAD   BALM  373 

panorama  before  her.  Stages  and  stairways  and  scaffold 
ings  by  which  the  world-spirit  might  mount  an  inch:  fer 
ments  and  leavens:  voices  telling  of  democracy  and  fair 
play  and  care  for  your  neighbour's  freedom  as  for  your  own, 
your  woman-neighbour  and  your  man-neighbour.  Through 
her  mind  ran  all  the  enormous  detail  of  the  work  being 
pursued  over  all  the  country;  countless  meetings,  speeches, 
appeals,  talks  to  a  dozen  gathered  together  or  to  two  or 
three;  letters  and  letters  and  letters,  press  and  magazine 
utterances,  organization,  the  difficult  raising  of  money,  legis 
lative  work,  petitions,  canvassing;  drudgery  in  myriad 
detail,  letters  and  letters,  voice  and  pen.  .  .  .  And  all  the 
opposition  —  blind  bigotry  to  be  met,  and  a  maniac  fear  of 
change,  inertia,  tradition,  habit,  the  dead  past's  hand,  cold 
and  heavy  —  and  all  the  interested  opposition,  the  things 
whose  book  the  movement  did  not  suit  —  and  all  the  leth 
argy  of  womankind  itself.  .  .  .  And  in  the  very  camp,  in  the 
huge,  chaotic  movement  itself,  as  in  all  the  past's  vast  human 
movements,  recurring  frictions,  antagonisms,  small  jealousies, 
flags  set  up  by  individuals,  pacifications  and  smoothings, 
bringing  compatibles  together,  keeping  incompatibles  apart. 
...  A  contending  with  outer  oppositions  and  inner  weak 
nesses,  resisting  discouragement,  fighting  cynicism,  acknowl 
edging  the  vast  road  to  travel,  keeping  on.  .  .  .  She  knew 
nothing  that  was  at  once  so  weak  and  so  mighty  as  the 
Woman  Movement.  One  who  was  deep  within  it  might  feel 
at  times  a  vast  weariness,  impatience,  and  despair  .  .  .  but 
deep  within  it  you  never  left  it.  Here  you  dealt  with  clay 
that  was  so  cold  and  lumpish  it  seemed  that  no  generous  idea 
could  germinate  within;  here  you  dealt  with  stuff  so  friable, 


374 


HAGAR 


light,  and  disintegrative  that  the  thought  would  come  that  it 
were  better  to  cast  it  to  the  winds  .  .  .  but  you  did  not;  you 
comforted  your  soul  with  the  very  much  that  was  noble,  and 
you  hoped  for  the  other  that  was  not  yet  noble,  and  you  went 
on  —  went  on.  It  was  all  you  yourself — you  had  within  you 
the  intractable  clay  and  the  stuff  light  as  chaff,  inconsequent; 
but  you  went  on  transmuting,  lifting.  .  .  .  There  was  no 
other  hope,  no  other  course,  deep  down  no  other  wish.  So 
with  the  Woman  Movement.  .  .  .  Another  station.  Hagar 
looked  out  at  the  lights  and  the  hurrying  forms;  then,  as  the 
train  roared  into  the  white  countryside,  at  what  could  be 
seen  of  the  fields  and  hills  and  storm-bent  trees.  She  was 
thinking  now  of  Gilead  Balm  and  her  childhood  and  her 
mother.  She  seemed  to  lie  again,  close  beside  Maria,  on  the 
big,  chintz-covered  sofa.  At  last  she  slept,  lying  so. 

Captain  Bob  and  Lisa  met  her  at  the  station,  three  miles 
from  Gilead  Balm.  Captain  Bob  had  a  doleful  mien.  "Oh, 
yes,  the  Colonel's  better  —  but  I  don't  think  he's  so  much 
better.  He's  getting  old  —  and  Lisa  and  I  are  getting  old, 
too,  are  n't  we  old  girl  ?  —  old  like  Luna  and  going  away 
pretty  soon  like  Luna.  Well,  Gipsy,  you  're  looking  natural 
—  No,  it's  been  an  open  winter  down  here  —  not  much 
snow."  He  put  her  in  the  carriage,  and  they  drove  slowly  to 
Gilead  Balm,  over  the  heavy  country  road. 

Old  Miss  was  well;  Serena  was  well;  Captain  Bob  himself 
had  had  rheumatism,  but  he  was  better.  —  The  Colonel 
did  n't  look  badly;  it  was  only  that  he  did  n't  seem  to  want 
to  get  out  of  bed,  and  that  every  little  while  he  set  the  clock 
back  and  rambled  on  about  things  and  people  —  "  It's  creepy 
to  hear  him,"  said  Captain  Bob.  "He  thinks  young  Dr.  Bude 


GILEAD  BALM  375 

is  old  Dr.  Bude,  and  he  thinks  that  Maria  is  alive,  and  that 
she  won't  let  you  come  into  the  room.  And  then  it'll 
change  like  that,  and  he's  just  as  much  himself  as  he  ever 
was  —  more  so,  in  fact.  —  Hi,  Li-sa !  let  that  rooster  alone — " 

The  house  cedars  showed  over  the  brown  hills.  "Dr.  Bude 
wanted  Old  Miss  to  get  a  trained  nurse  because  somebody's 
got  more  or  less  to  watch  at  night.  But  Old  Miss  would  n't 
hear  to  it.  She  don't  approve  of  women  training  for  nurses, 
so  she's  got  young  Phcebe  and  Isham's  second  wife  —  and  I 
think  myself,"  said  Captain  Bob,  "that  I  would  n't  want  a 
young  white  woman  that  I  could  n't  order  round." 

Red  brick  and  brown  fields  and  the  black-green  of  many 
cedars  —  here  was  Gilead  Balm,  looking  just  as  it  used  to 
look  of  a  February.  The  air  was  cold  and  still,  the  day  a  grey 
one,  the  smoke  from  the  chimneys  moving  upward  sluggishly. 
Miss  Serena  came  down  the  porch  steps  and  greeted  Hagar 
as  she  stepped  from  the  carriage. 

"Yes,  your  old  room.  Did  you  have  a  tiresome  journey?  — 
Is  your  trunk  coming?  Then  I'll  send  it  up  as  soon  as  they 
bring  it.  Young  Phoebe,  you  take  Miss  Hagar's  bag  up  to  her 
room.  The  fire's  lighted,  Hagar,  and  Mirny  shall  make  you 
a  cup  of  coffee.  We're  glad  to  see  you." 

The  old  room,  her  mother's  and  her  own !  Hagar  had  not 
been  in  it  in  winter-time  for  a  long  while.  When  Phcebe  was 
gone,  she  sat  in  the  winged  chair  by  the  fire  and  regarded  the 
familiar  wall-paper  and  the  old,  carved  wardrobe  and  the 
four-poster  bed  and  the  sofa  where  Maria  had  lain,  and, 
between  the  dimity  curtains  at  the  windows,  the  winter 
landscape.  The  fire  was  bright  and  danced  in  the  old  mahog 
any;  the  old  chintz  covers  were  upon  the  chair  and  sofa  —  the 


376  HAGAR 

old  pattern,  only  the  hues  faded.  Hagar  rose,  took  off  her 
travelling  dress,  bathed  and  put  on  a  dark,  silken  dressing- 
gown.  She  took  the  pins  from  her  hair  and  let  it  stream;  it 
was  like  Maria's.  She  stood  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  upon  the 
pallid  day,  the  rusty  cedars  without  the  window,  then  she 
went  to  the  chintz  sofa  and  lay  down  in  the  firelight,  piling 
the  pillows  behind  her  head,  taking,  half-consciously,  the 
posture  that  oftenest  in  her  memory  she  saw  Maria  take. 
Her  mother  was  present  with  her;  there  came  an  expression 
into  her  face  that  was  her  mother's.  Old  Miss  knocked  at  the 
door,  and  entered  without  waiting  for  the  "Come  in!" 

Hagar  rose  and  embraced  her  grandmother;  then  Old  Miss 
sat  down  in  the  winged  chair  and  her  granddaughter  went 
back  to  the  sofa.  The  two  gazed  at  each  other.  Hagar  did 
not  know  that  she  looked  to-day  like  Maria,  and  Old  Miss 
did  not  examine  the  springs  and  sources  of  a  mounting  anger 
and  sense  of  injury.  She  sat  very  straight,  with  her  knitting 
in  her  hand,  wearing  a  cap  upon  her  smoothly  parted  hair,  in 
which  there  were  yet  strands  of  brown,  wearing  a  black  stuff 
skirt  and  low-heeled  shoes  over  white  stockings;  comely  yet, 
and  as  ever,  authoritative. 

"  I  am  so  very  sorry  about  grandfather,"  said  Hagar. 
"Uncle  Bob  thinks  he  is  better — " 

"Yes,  he  is  better.  He  will  be  well  presently.  I  should 
not,"  said  Old  Miss  coldly,  "have  written  asking  you  to  come 
but  that  Dr.  Bude  advised  it." 

"I  was  very  glad  to  come." 

"Dr.  Bude  is  by  no  means  the  man  his  father  was.  The  age 
is  degenerate.  And  so"  —  said  Old  Miss  —  "Sylvie  Maine 
has  taken  the  prize  right  from  under  your  hand." 


GILEAD   BALM  377 

"Oh!"  said  Hagar.  The  corners  of  her  lips  rose;  her  look 
that  had  been  rather  still  and  brooding  broke  into  sunshine. 
"If  you  call  it  that!  —  I  hope  that  Ralph  and  Sylvie  will  be 
very  happy." 

"They  will  probably  be  extraordinarily  happy.  She  is  not 
one  of  your  new  women.  I  detest,"  said  Old  Miss  grimly, 
"your  new  women." 

Silence.  Hagar  lay  back  against  the  pillows  and  she  looked 
more  and  more  to  Old  Miss  like  Maria.  Old  Miss's  needles 
clicked. 

"When  may  I  see  grandfather?"  asked  Hagar,  and  she  kept 
her  voice  friendly  and  quiet. 

"He  is  sleeping  now.  When  he  wakes  up,  if  he  asks  for 
you  you  may  go  in.  I  would  n't  stay  long.  —  And  what  have 
you  been  doing  this  winter?" 

"Various  things,  grandmother.  Thomasine  and  I  have 
been  working  pretty  hard.  Thomasine  sent  her  regards  to 
every  one  at  Gilead  Balm." 

"If  you  hadn't  thrown  away  Medway's  million  dollars 
you  would  n't  have  had  to  work,"  said  Old  Miss.  "Maria 
was  perfectly  spendthrift,  and  of  course  you  take  after 
her.  —  What  kind  of  work  do  you  mean  you  have  been 
doing?" 

"I  have  been  writing,  of  course.  And  then  other  work 
connected  with  movements  in  which  I  am  interested." 

Old  Miss's  needles  clicked  again!  "Unsexing  women  and 
unsettling  the  minds  of  working-people.  I  saw  a  piece  in  a 
paper.  Preposterous!  But  it's  just  what  Maria  would  have 
liked  to  have  done." 

Silence  again;  then  Hagar  leaned  across  and  took  up  her 


378  HAGAR 

grandmother's  work.  "What  is  it?  An  afghan?  It's  lovely 
soft  wool." 

"When,"  asked  Old  Miss,  "are  you  going  to  marry  —  and 
whom?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  grandmother,  that  I  am  going  to  marry,  or 
whom." 

"You  should  have  married  Ralph.  .  .  .  All  these  years  have 
you  had  any  other  offers?" 

"Yes,  grandmother." 

"While  you  were  with  Medway?" 

"Yes,  grandmother." 

"Have  you  had  any  since  you  set  up  in  this  remarkable 
way  for  yourself?" 

Hagar  laughed.  "No,  grandmother  —  unless  you  except 
Ralph." 

"Ha!"  said  Old  Miss  in  grim  triumph;  "I  knew  you 
wouldn't!" 

Miss  Serena  came  to  the  door.  "Father's  awake  and  he 
wants  to  see  Hagar." 

But  when  Hagar  went  down  and  into  the  big  room  and  up 
to  the  great  bed,  the  Colonel  declared  her  to  be  Maria,  grew 
excited,  and  said  that  she  should  n't  keep  his  grandchild  from 
him.  "I  tell  you,  woman,  Medway  and  I  are  going  to  use 
authority!  The  child's  Medway's  —  Medway's  next  of  kin 
by  every  law  in  the  land!  He  can  take  her  from  you,  and,  by 
God!  he  shall  do  it!" 

"Father,"  said  Miss  Serena,  "this  is  Hagar,  grown  up." 

But  the  Colonel  grew  violently  angry.  "You  are  all 
lying!  —  a  man's  family  conspiring  against  him!  That 
woman 's  my  daughter-in-law  —  my  son's  wife,  dependent 


GILEAD   BALM  379 

on  me  for  her  bread  and  shelter  and  setting  up  her  will  against 
mine!  And  now  she's  all  for  keeping  from  me  my  grandchild 
—  she's  hiding  Gipsy  in  closets  and  under  the  stairs  —  You 
have  no  right.  It's  not  your  child,  it's  Medway's  child! 
That's  law.  You  ought  to  be  whipped!" 

"Grandfather,"  said  Hagar,  "do  you  remember  Alexandria 
and  the  mosques  and  the  Place  Mahomet  AH?" 

"Why,  exactly,"  said  the  Colonel.  "Well,  Gipsy,  we 
always  wanted  to  travel,  did  n't  we?  That  dragoman  seems 
to  know  his  business  —  we're  going  down  to  Cairo  to-day 
and  out  to  see  the  pyramids.  Want  to  come  along?" 

Day  followed  day  at  Gilead  Balm.  Sometimes  the  Col 
onel's  mind  wandered  over  the  seas  of  creation,  with  the  pilot 
asleep  at  the  helm;  sometimes  the  pilot  suddenly  awoke, 
though  it  was  not  apt  to  be  for  long.  It  was  eerie  when  the 
pilot  awoke;  when  he  suddenly  sat  there,  gaunt,  with  a  parch 
ment  face  and  beak-like  nose  and  straying  white  hair,  and  in 
a  cool,  drawling  voice  asked  intelligent  questions  about  the 
hour  and  the  season  and  the  plantation  happenings. 

At  such  times,  if  Hagar  were  not  already  in  the  room,  he 
demanded  to  see  her.  She  came,  sat  by  him  in  the  great  chair, 
offered  to  read  to  him.  He  was  not  infrequently  willing  for 
her  to  do  this.  She  read  both  prose  and  verse  to  him  this 
winter.  Sometimes  he  did  not  wish  her  to  read;  he  wanted  to 
talk.  When  this  was  the  case  —  the  pilot  being  awake  —  it 
was  her  life  away  from  Gilead  Balm  that  he  oftenest  chose  to 
comment  upon.  That  he  knew  the  content  of  her  life  hardly 
at  all  mattered,  as  little  to  the  Colonel  as  it  mattered  to  Old 
Miss  and  Miss  Serena.  They  were  going  to  let  fly  their 
arrows;  if  there  was  no  target  in  the  direction  in  which  they 


380  HAGAR 

shot,  at  least  they  were  in  sublime  ignorance  of  the  fact. 
Hagar  let  them  talk.  Not  only  the  Colonel  —  Gilead  Balm 
was  dying.  ...  In  the  middle  of  a  sarcastic  sentence  the  pilot 
would  drop  asleep  again;  in  a  moment  the  barque  was  at  the 
mercy  of  every  wandering  wind.  Hagar  became  Maria  and 
he  gibbered  at  her. 

Young  Dr.  Bude  came  and  went.  February  grew  old  and 
passed  into  March;  March,  cold  and  sunny,  with  high  winds, 
wheeled  by;  April  came  with  tender  light,  with  Judas  trees 
and  bloodroot,  and  the  white  cherry  trees  in  a  mist  of  bloom; 
and  still  the  Colonel  lay  there,  and  now  the  pilot  waked  and 
now  the  pilot  slept. 

May  came.  Dr.  Bude  stayed  in  the  house.  One  evening  at 
dusk  the  Colonel  suddenly  opened  his  eyes  upon  his  family 
gathered  about  his  bed.  Old  Miss  was  sitting,  upright  and 
still,  in  the  great  chair  at  the  bed-head.  Miss  Serena  had  a 
low  chair  at  the  foot,  and  Captain  Bob  was  near,  his  old,  grey 
head  buried  in  his  hands.  There  was  also  an  Ashendyne  close 
kinsman,  and  a  Coltsworth  —  not  Ralph.  Dr.  Bude  waited 
in  the  background.  Hagar  stood  behind  Miss  Serena. 

Colonel  Argall  Ashendyne  looked  out  from  his  pillow. 
"Was  n't  the  Canal  good  enough  ?  Who  wants  their  Railroad 
—  damn  them!  And  after  the  Railroad  there'll  be  something 
else.  .  .  .  Public  Schools,  too!  .  .  .  This  country's  getting  too 
damnably  democratic!"  His  eyes  closed,  his  face  seemed  to 
sink  together.  Dr.  Bude  came  from  the  hearth  and,  bending 
over,  laid  his  finger  upon  the  pulse.  The  Colonel  again 
opened  his  eyes.  They  were  fastened  now  on  Hagar,  standing 
behind  Miss  Serena.  "Well,  Gipsy!"  he  said  with  cheerful 
ness,  "It's  a  pretty  comfortable  boat,  eh?  We'll  make  the 


GILEAD   BALM  381 

voyage  before  we  know  it."  His  hands  touched  the  bed. 
"Steamer  chairs!  I  don't  think  I  was  ever  in  one  before. 
Lean  back  and  see  the  wide  ocean  stretch  before  you!  The 
wide  ocean  .  .  .  the  wide  ocean  .  .  . 

"  *  Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean,  roll! ' 

That's  Byron,  you  know,  Gipsy.  .  .  .  The  wide  ocean  .  .  ." 
His  eyes  glazed.    He  sank  back.    Dr.  Bude  touched  the 
wrist  again;  then,  straightening  himself,  turned  and  spoke  to 
Old  Miss. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

BRITTANY 

"SHE  hasn't  had  a  holiday  for  nearly  four  years,"  said 
Molly.  "I'm  glad  she's  gone  for  this  summer.  She  would  n't 
take  Thomasine  —  she  said  she  wanted  to  be  all,  all  alone, 
just  for  three  months.  Then  she  would  come  back  to  work." 

"Brittany—" 

"Yes.  A  little  place  on  the  coast  that  she  knew.  She  said 
she  wanted  the  sea.  I  thought  perhaps  that  she  had  written 
to  you  — " 

"Not  since  May,"  said  John  Fay.  "There  was  a  proposed 
extension  of  a  piece  of  work  of  mine  in  the  West.  I  was  called 
out  there  to  see  about  it,  and  I  had  to  go.  I  was  kept  for 
weeks.  I  tried  to  get  back,  but  I  could  n't  —  I  was  in  hon 
our  bound.  Then  when  I  came  her  boat  had  sailed.  And 
now  I—" 

He  measured  the  table  with  his  fingers.  "Do  you  think 
she  would  hate  me  if  I  turned  up  in  that  place  in  Brittany?" 

Molly  considered  it.  "She's  a  reasonable  being.  Brittany 
is  n't  for  the  benefit  of  just  one  person." 

"Ah,  but  you  see  I  should  want  to  talk  to  her." 

Molly  pondered  that,  too.  "Well,  I  should  try,  I  think.  If 
she  does  n't  want  to  talk  she  will  tell  you  so.  .  .  ." 

Hagar's  village  was  a  small  village,  a  grey  patch  of  time- 
worn  houses,  set  like  a  lichen  against  a  cliff  with  a  heath 
above.  Before  it  ran  a  great  and  far  stretch  of  brown  sands. 


BRITTANY  383 

There  was  a  tiny  harbour  where  the  fishing-boats  came  in, 
and  all  beyond  the  thundering  sea.  The  place  boasted  a  small 
inn,  but  she  did  not  stay  there.  The  widow  of  the  cure  had 
to  let  a  clean  large  room,  overlooking  a  windy  garden,  and 
the  widow  and  her  one  servant  set  a  table  with  simple,  well- 
cooked  fare.  Hagar  stayed  here,  though  most  of  the  time, 
indeed,  she  stayed  out  upon  the  brown,  shell-strewn,  far- 
stretching  sands. 

She  walked  for  miles,  or,  down  with  the  women  at  evening, 
she  watched  the  boats  come  one  by  one  to  haven,  or,  far  from 
the  village,  beneath  some  dune-like  heap  of  sand,  she  sat 
with  her  hands  about  her  knees  and  watched  the  shifting 
colour  of  the  sea.  She  had  a  book  with  her;  sometimes  she 
read  in  it,  and  sometimes  it  lay  unopened.  All  the  colours 
went  over  the  sea,  the  surf  murmured,  the  sea-birds  flew,  the 
salt  wind  bent  the  sparse  grass  at  the  top  of  the  dune.  On 
such  an  afternoon,  after  long,  motionless  dreaming,  she 
changed  her  posture,  turning  her  eyes  toward  the  distant 
village.  A  man  was  walking  toward  her,  over  the  firm  sand. 
She  watched  him  at  first  dreamily,  then,  suddenly,  with  a 
quickened  breath.  While  the  distance  between  them  was  yet 
great,  she  knew  it  to  be  Fay. 

He  came  up  to  her  and  held  out  his  hand.  She  put  hers  in 
it.  "Did  I  startle  you?"  he  said.  "If  you  don't  want  me,  I 
will  go  away." 

"I  thought  you  were  bridge-building  in  the  West." 

"I  could  get  away  at  last.  I  crossed  the  Atlantic  because 
I  wanted  to  see  you.  Do  you  mind,  very  much?" 

"Do  I  mind  seeing  you  here,  in  Brittany?  No,  I  do  not 
know  that  I  mind  that.  ...  Sit  down  and  tell  me  about 


384  HAGAR 

America.  America  has  seemed  so  far  away,  these  still,  still 
days  .  .  .  farther  away  than  the  sun  and  the  moon." 

Long  and  clean-limbed,  with  his  sea-blue  eyes  and  quizzical 
look,  Fay  threw  himself  down  upon  the  sand  beside  her. 
They  talked  that  day  of  people  at  home,  of  the  work  he  had 
been  doing  and  of  her  long  absence  at  Gilead  Balm.  She  made 
him  see  the  place  —  the  old  man  who  had  died  —  and  Old 
Miss  and  Miss  Serena  and  Captain  Bob  and  the  servants  and 
Lisa. 

"They  are  going  to  live  on  there?" 

"Yes.  Just  as  they  have  done,  until  they,  too,  die.  .  .  . 
Oh,  Gilead  Balm!" 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  the  sun  making  a  red  path  across  the 
waters,  and  the  red-sailed  boats  growing  larger,  coming 
toward  the  land,  they  walked  back  to  the  village  together. 
He  left  her  at  the  door  of  the  cure's  house.  He  himself  was 
staying  at  the  inn.  She  did  not  ask  him  how  long  he  would 
stay,  or  if  he  was  on  his  way  to  other,  larger  places.  The 
situation  accepted  itself. 

There  followed  some  days  of  wandering  together,  through 
the  little  grey  town,  or  over  the  green  headland  to  a  country 
beyond  of  pine  trees  and  Druid  stones,  or,  in  the  evening 
light,  along  the  sands.  They  found  a  sailboat,  with  an  old, 
hale  boatman,  for  hire,  and  they  went  out  in  this  boat. 
Sometimes  the  wind  carried  them  along,  swift  as  a  leaf; 
sometimes  they  went  as  in  a  sea-revery,  so  dreamily.  The 
boatman  knew  all  the  legends  of  the  sea;  he  told  them  stories 
of  the  King  of  Ys  and  the  false  Ahes,  and  then  he  talked  of 
the  Pardons  of  his  youth.  Sometimes  they  skirted  the  coast, 
sometimes  they  went  so  far  out  that  the  land  was  but  an 


BRITTANY  385 

eastward-lying  shadow.  The  next  day,  perhaps,  they  wan 
dered  inland,  over  the  heath  among  dolmens  and  menhirs, 
or,  seated  on  old  wreckage  upon  the  sands,  the  dark  blue  sea 
before  them,  now  they  talked  and  now  they  kept  company 
with  silence.  They  talked  little  rather  than  much.  The  place 
was  taciturn,  and  her  mood  made  for  quiet. 

It  was  not  until  the  fourth  day  that  he  told  her  for  what  he 
had  come.  "But  you  know  for  what  I  came." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"If  you  could— " 

"I  want,"  said  Hagar,  "more  time.  Will  you  let  it  all  rest 
for  a  little  longer?  I  don't  think  I  could  tell  you  truly 
to-day." 

"As  long  as  you  wish,"  he  said,  "if  only,  in  the  end  — " 

Two  days  after  this  they  went  out  in  the  afternoon  in  the 
boat.  It  had  been  a  warm  day,  with  murk  in  the  air.  At  the 
little  landing-place  Fay,  after  a  glance  at  the  dim,  hot  arch  of 
the  sky,  asked  the  boatman  if  bad  weather  might  be  brewing. 
But  the  Breton  was  positive. 

"Nothing  to-day  —  nothing  to-day!  To-morrow,  perhaps, 


m'sieu." 


They  went  sailing  far  out,  until  the  land  sunk  from  sight. 
An  hour  or  two  passed,  pleasantly,  pleasantly.  Then  sud 
denly  the  wind,  where  they  were,  dropped  like  a  stone.  They 
lay  for  an  hour  with  flapping  sail  and  watched  the  blue  sky 
grow  pallid  and  then  darken.  A  puff  of  wind,  hot  and  heavy, 
lifted  the  hair  from  their  brows.  It  increased;  the  sky  dark 
ened  yet  more;  with  an  appalling  might  and  swiftness  the 
worst  storm  of  the  half-year  burst  upon  them.  The  wind 
blew  a  hurricane;  the  sea  rose;  suddenly  the  mast  went. 


386  HAGAR 

Fay  and  the  Breton  battled  with  the  wreckage,  cut  it  loose 
—  the  boat  righted.  But  she  had  shipped  water  and  her 
timbers  were  straining  and  creaking.  The  wind  was  whip 
ping  her  away  to  the  open  sea,  and  the  waves,  continually 
mounting,  battered  her  side.  There  was  a  perceptible  list. 
Night  was  oncoming,  and  the  fury  above  increasing. 

Hagar  braided  her  long  hair  that  the  wind  had  loosened 
from  its  fastening.  "We  are  in  danger,"  she  said  to  Fay. 

"Yes.    Can  you  swim?" 

"Yes.    But   there  would  be  no  long  swimming  in  this 


sea." 


They  sat  in  the  darkness  of  the  storm.  When  the  lightnings 
flashed  each  had  a  vision  of  the  other's  face,  tense  and  still. 
There  was  nothing  that  could  be  done.  The  sailor,  who  was 
hardy  enough,  now  muttered  prayers  and  now  objurgations 
upon  the  faithless  weather.  He  tried  to  assure  his  passengers 
that  not  St.  Anne  herself  could  have  foreseen  what  was  going 
to  occur  that  afternoon.  Certainly  Jean  Gouillou  had  not. 
"That's  understood,"  said  Hagar,  smiling  at  him  in  a  flash  of 
lightning;  and,  "Just  do  your  best  now,"  said  Fay. 

The  wild  storm  continued.  Wind  and  wave  tossed  and 
drove  the  helpless  boat.  Now  it  laboured  in  the  black  trough 
of  the  waves,  now  it  staggered  upon  the  summits;  and  always 
it  laboured  more  heavily,  and  always  it  was  more  laggard  in 
rising.  The  Breton  and  Fay  took  turns  in  bailing  the  water 
out.  It  was  now,  save  for  the  lightning,  dark  night.  At  last 
it  was  seen  —  though  still  they  worked  on  —  that  there  was 
little  use  in  bailing.  The  boat  grew  heavier,  more  distressed. 
The  sea  was  running  high. 

"Some  wave  will  swamp  us?" 


BRITTANY  387 

"Yes.  It  is  a  matter  of  time  —  and  not  long  time,  I  think." 

Hagar  put  out  her  hands  to  him.  "Then  I  will  tell  you 
now  — " 

He  took  her  hands.   "Is  it  your  answer ?" 

"Yes,  my  dear.  .  .  .  Yes,  my  dear." 

They  bent  toward  each  other  —  their  lips  met.  "Now, 
whether  we  live  or  whether  we  die  — " 

The  wild  storm  continued.  The  slow  sands  of  the  night  ran 
on,  and  still  the  boat  lived,  though  always  more  weakly,  with 
the  end  more  certainly  before  her.  The  Breton  crossed  him 
self  and  prayed.  Hagar  and  Fay  sat  close  together,  hand  in 
hand.  After  midnight  the  storm  suddenly  decreased  in  force. 
The  lightning  and  thunder  ceased,  the  clouds  began  to  part. 
In  another  hour  there  would  be  a  sky  all  stars.  The  wind 
that  had  been  so  loud  and  wild  sank  to  a  lingering,  steady 
moaning.  There  was  left  the  tumultuous,  lifted  sea,  and  the 
boat  sunken  now  almost  to  her  gunwales. 

Fay  spoke  in  a  low  voice.   "Are  you  afraid  of  death?" 

"No You  cannot  kill  life." 

"It  will  not  be  painful,  going  as  we  shall  go  —  if  it  is  to 
happen.  And  to  go  together — " 

"I  am  glad  that  we  are  going  together  —  seeing  that  we 
are  to  go." 

"Do  you  believe  that  —  when  it  is  over  —  we  shall  be 
together  still?" 

"Consciously  together?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  do  not  know.  No  one  knows.  No  one  can  know  —  yet. 
But  I  have  faith  that  we  shall  persist,  and  that  intelligently. 
I  do  not  think  that  we  shall  forget  or  ignore  our  old  selves. 


388  HAGAR 

And  if  we  wish  to  be  together  —  and  we  do  wish  it  —  then  I 
think  we  may  have  power  to  compass  it." 

"It  has  sometimes  seemed  to  me,"  said  Fay,  "that  After 
Death  may  prove  to  be  just  Life  with  something  like  fourth 
dimensional  powers.  All  this  life  a  memory  as  of  childhood, 
and  a  power  and  freedom  and  scope  undreamed  of  now — " 

"It  is  possible.  All  things  are  possible  —  save  extinction. 
—  I  think,  too,  it  will  be  higher,  more  spiritual.  ...  At  any 
rate,  I  do  not  fear.  I  feel  awe  as  before  something  unknown 
and  high." 

"And  I  the  same." 

Off  in  the  east  the  stars  were  paling,  there  was  coming  a 
vague  and  mournful  grey.  The  boat  was  sinking.  The  two 
men  had  torn  away  the  thwarts  and  with  a  piece  of  rope 
lashed  them  together.  It  would  be  little  more  than  a  straw  to 
cling  to,  in  the  turbulent  wide,  ocean,  miles  from  land.  All 
were  cold  and  numbed  with  the  wind  and  the  rain  and  the 
sea. 

Purple  streaks  came  into  the  east,  a  chill  and  solemn  lift 
to  all  the  sea  and  air  and  the  roofless  ether.  Hagar  and  Fay 
looked  at  the  violet  light,  at  the  extreme  and  ghostly  calm  of 
the  fields  of  dawn.  "It  is  coming  now,"  said  Fay,  and  put 
his  arm  around  her.  The  boat  sank. 

The  three,  clinging  to  the  frail  raft  they  had  provided, 
were  swung  from  wave  to  wave  beneath  the  glowing  dawn. 
.  .  .  The  wind  was  stilled  now,  the  water,  under  the  rising  sun, 
smoothed  itself  out.  They  drifted,  drifted;  and  now  the  sun 
was  an  hour  high.  .  .  .  "Look!  look!"  cried  the  Breton,  and 
they  looked  and  saw  a  red  sail  coming  toward  them. 


BRITTANY  389 

A  day  or  two  later  Hagar  and  Fay  met  at  the  gate  of  the 
cure's  widow,  and  climbing  through  the  grey  town  came  out 
upon  the  heath  above.  It  was  a  high,  clear  afternoon,  with  a 
marvellous  blue  sky.  They  walked  until  they  came  to  a  circle 
of  stones,  raised  there  in  the  immemorial,  dark  past.  When 
they  had  wandered  among  them  for  a  while,  they  rested, 
leaning  against  the  greatest  menhir,  looking  out  over  the 
grey-green,  far-stretching  heath  to  a  line  of  sapphire  sea. 
"It  grows  like  a  dream,"  said  Hagar.  " Death,  life  —  life, 
death.  ...  I  think  we  are  growing  into  something  that  tran 
scends  both  ...  as  we  have  known  both." 

"Hagar,  do  you  love  me?" 

"Yes,  I  love  you.  ...  It's  a  quiet  love,  but  it's  deep." 

They  sat  down  in  the  warm  grass  by  the  huge  stone,  and 
now  they  talked  and  now  they  were  silent  and  content. 
Little  by  little  they  laid  their  plans. 

"Let  us  go  to  London.  I  will  go  to  Roger  Michael's.  We 
will  marry  quietly  there." 

"Lily  and  Robert  will  want  to  come  from  Scotland." 

"Well,  we'll  let  them."  Hagar  laughed,  a  musical,  sweet 
laugh.  "Thomson  is  in  London  with  Mr.  Greer.  Dear  old 
Thomson!  I  think  he'll  have  to  come." 

"Couldn't  we  have,"  said  Fay,  "a  month  in  some  old, 
green,  still,  English  country  place?" 

"With  roses  to  the  eaves  and  a  sunken  lane  to  wander 
in  and  at  night  a  cricket  chirping  on  the  hearth.  .  .  .  We'll 
try." 

"And  in  October  sail  for  home." 

"And  in  October  sail  for  home." 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  smiled  and  yet  were 


390  HAGAR 

grave.  "You're  aware  that  you're  marrying  a  working- 
woman,  who  intends  to  continue  to  work?" 

"I'm  aware." 

Her  candid  eyes  continued  to  meet  his.  "I  wish  a  child. 
While  it  needs  me  and  when  it  needs  me,  I  shall  be  there." 

His  hand  closed  over  hers.  "Is  it  as  though  I  did  not  know 
that—" 

She  kissed  him  on  the  lips.  "And  you're  aware  that  I 
shall  work  on  through  life  for  the  fairer  social  order?  And 
that,  generally  speaking,  the  Woman  Movement  has  me  for 
keeps?" 

"I'm  aware.   I'm  going  to  help  you." 

"South  America  — " 

"I'm  not  wedded,"  said  Fay,  "to  South  American  gov 
ernments.  There  are  a  plenty  of  bridges  to  be  built  in  the 
United  States." 

The  grey-green  silent  heath  stretched  away  to  the  shining 
sea.  The  grasses  waved  around  and  between  the  grey  altars 
of  the  past,  and  the  sky  vaulted  all,  azure  and  splendid. 
Two  sea-birds  passed  overhead  with  a  long,  clarion  cry.  Two 
butterflies  hung  poised  upon  a  thistle  beside  them.  The  salt 
wind  blew  from  the  sea  as  it  had  blown  against  man  and 
woman  when  these  stones  were  raised.  They  sat  and  talked 
until  the  sun  was  low  in  the  west,  and  then,  hand  in  hand, 
walked  back  toward  the  village. 


THE    END 


fctoetfibe 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
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